Nobody Screws Up a Second Shot
by non-damsel
Summary: Persuasion. Cameron already has more than she can handle: no job out of college, a family that hates her, apart from one needy younger sister. And now, an exfiancé with a bestselling novel and a grudge. Maybe its karma. Or maybe its a 2nd chance
1. Prologue

**Nobody Screws Up a Second Shot**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Persuasion. _I don't own Barns & Noble. I don't own _The Da Vinci Code. _I don't own Forster, Keats, or Nick Hornby. Is that enough?

**Summary: **Persuasion. Cameron Lewis already has more than she can handle: no job out of college, no plan, a family that hates her, apart from one needy younger sister. Then life throws her a curve: an ex-fiancé with a best-selling novel and a grudge. Maybe it's karma. Or maybe it's a second chance.

**- - -**

**0. Prologue**

Mark Salvo may have written a book about me.

Actually, there's really no maybe about it. He _wrote_ a book about me. I read it the day it came out, April 22, two years ago. Even took the morning off Restoration Literature for the occasion. I read the whole thing in one sitting, cowered in the back corner of Barns & Noble. It was awful: like a long, seething letter outlining just how much he hated me. He'd taken no pains to disguise things either. Named his character Cam (a nickname I've never gone by, but _still_). I was so shocked I couldn't stop reading until it was over. And then I bought it, and took it to my dorm room, and plowed through it again.

Totally blew my finals that semester.

You've probably read it; everybody has. People who hadn't picked up a book since _The Da Vinci Code _was such a big deal picked up _Judas Kiss_. Critics loved it. Barely literature dime-store addicts loved it. Everyone love it: they just _identified_ with the adorable, broken-hearted protagonist and hated that bitch Cam who broke of their engagement without so much as a warning or an explanation.

You hated her, didn't you?

Hey, no judgment here. I hated her too. I hated myself.

The booksent me into a funk that summer only comparable to the funk I'd suffered after I'd broken off the engagement in real life. But like that time before, and like everything else, I survived. In August, when classes began I again I threw myself into Advanced Grammar and 19th Century British Lit with energy I didn't even know I had. I diagramed sentences. I read Keats. I even dated a couple of guys. Nothing serious though. Nothing stuck, that's all.

I tucked _Judas Kiss _between EM Forster and Nick Hornby on my shelf of all-time favorite novels. I decided it was something to be proud of: I'd inspired a book that swept the nation.

So now, Mark Salvo's novel and I can peacefully co-exist. I've made rules: once every third month I'm allowed to take the book from its place on the favorites shelf. I'm not allowed to read the whole thing from front to back. But I can page through it, skim the meanest, most spiteful parts—paragraphs and sentences that are highlighted and underlined. There are comments scribbled all over my margins. There are passages I know by heart. It's masochistic, sure, but how can I help it? What would you do?

Besides, it's only every third month. Four times a year. That's reasonable.

Oh, you've probably heard but I'll tell you anyway: they're making it into a movie. Ever played that game where you ask: if someone played you in a movie, who would it be?

It's not just a game for me. I'll get to see in real life.

Which is cool, you know? So it's not all bad, having a bitter ex-fiancé expose your cruelty and cowardice to the world. I'm totally fine with it. I'm having a blast.

Take that, Mark Salvo.

Take that.

-----

**A/N: Hello, hello! So **_**Persuasion **_**it is. I feel kinda bad 'cause some of you were rooting for S&S… but I just reread **_**Persuasion **_**and I just couldn't help myself. Awkward ex-es rock! I realize this chapter was really short, but it was the prologue. The rest of the chapters will be regular chapter size, scout's honor.**

**Um, so another disclaimer before we get started. If you've read my other stories, by now you know I tend to not stick to the books in every particular. Subplots may be modified. Supporting player may be characterized way different than they were in the original (Johnny Mansfield being a prime example). I do and will try valiantly to stick to the spirit & major plot arcs of Jane Austen's awesomeness, but I don't like to simply regurgitate in modernized vocabulary. So I may as well warn you now: things I'm especially considering tweaking are the Mr. Elliot timeline & arc (because I really feel that Mark here needs some legitimate competition) and Mary's character (because I don't want **_**everyone **_**in my protagonist's life & family to be so god-awful; she needs someone she can remotely like). So if you find yourself thinking, "This person is OOC" or "Wait, this didn't happen in the book" you're probably right, and your welcome to tell me so, but it's probably on purpose.**

**That said, review! Review, review, review!**


	2. Birth Order

**Nobody Screws up a Second Shot**

**-**

**1. Birth Order**

On Sunday, I graduate from UTC with a dubiously useful degree in English and nobody cheering for me in the audience.

On Monday, I stuff my car with the entire contents of my dorm room and begin the ten hour drive from Chattanooga, TN to eastern PA where my family now resides, in a more-or-less affordable three-bedroom apartment somewhere outside of Philly.

It doesn't bother me that no one showed up to my graduation. I never expected that anyone would. I am, after all, the neglected child: perfect example of birth order gone exactly as predicted. Besides, when I chose a college such a distance from home I was intentionally trying to avoid visits from either direction. It's not that I don't like my family. It's just that we don't get along.

And mostly, by my family, I'm talking about Dad and Heather, the older sister. Maggie, the younger sister, escaped two years ago by marrying Jim Baker—ridiculously rich inheritor of his father's ­­advertising empire and a member of the high society New York set my family used to run around in. That was, of course, before Heather and Dad spent themselves into oblivion, lost the house, and moved to Pennsylvania to live off of Elise Carnell's good graces.

Elise is not family, but she might as well be. She was mom's best friend before mom died, and afterward she just took over. She runs the family. Basically, she runs our lives. Honestly, I've never figured out why she bothers with us. None of us have that much potential. Maybe she feels responsible, having been so close to mom. Maybe she's just a control freak.

I shouldn't be complaining, though. She likes me, which is more than I can say about Dad or Heather.

The truth is, I'm not happy to be moving back home. I haven't even been back for summers during the five years it took me to graduate. But now I've got no job offers, no plan, and no where else to go. What do you do with an English degree anyway?

Work at Starbucks. Me and Mark used to joke about that. How we'd both end up at Starbucks one day.

Mark. God.

My neck is getting stiff from the driving, and my gas tank is getting low. I pull off the highway and stop at a Sheetz, filling up and then wandering inside for the bathroom and something to drink.

When I return to my car, my cell phone inside is blinking that I have two new voicemails. The first is from Maggie, a characteristically hysterical monologue about how she thinks Jim wants a divorce. I hit seven to delete.

The second message is from Elise, requesting that I call her at my earliest convenience. I press seven again, merge back onto the highway, and call Elise back.

"Cameron," she says. "I'm so glad you called." She sounds, bizarrely, as if she wasn't expecting me to call. I half expect her to add, "What a pleasant surprise."

"Hello Elise," I say, turning into my charm-school self. "How can I help you?" A blue SUV cuts me off and I hit the brakes hard, barely missing rear-ending him.

Elise says, "Actually, it's more how I can help you. I thought I should warn you before you got home that the third bedroom in your father's apartment is currently occupied."

"Someone's living with Dad and Heather?" I ask, distracted as I try to switch lanes. And then my brain kicks in. "Wait, it's not Tina is it?"

Tina is an ex-waitress (Hooters seems likely) who attached herself to my sister a year ago, just at the perfect moment. Heather was going through losing the house and most of her rich kid friends at the time. Tina swooped in and latched on, and now she and Heather are Best Friends Forever.

And I swear, Tina wants to marry Dad. Which is, first of all, disgusting. Second, it suggests a certain lack of brainwaves on Tina's part. Like, hasn't she figured out with the house downgrade that the money is _gone_?

"Yes," Elise says disdainfully.

"Perfect," I mutter. I don't think Elise hears me. "So where am I supposed to be moving in to?" I ask.

"I'm sure we can have Tina out in a month or two. You're always welcome to stay with me until then," she says.

I'm not sure which is the better situation. The pseudo mother-daughter relationship between Elise and I has grown discernibly strained over the past four years. "Or there's always a couch in the living room," I say, trying to sound offhand.

"Of course," Elise says, clearly disappointed that I am still unable to forgive her, especially when she considers herself to have done me such a big favor.

Then, for a while, we chat about graduation (_long_), my plans (undecided), and when I'm going to be home (five more hours, at least). When we finally hang up, I consider calling Maggie, who's probably on the verge of coronary by now. But traffic has become pretty heavy, and I'm not sure I can handle her screaming in my ear just now.

- - - - -

Here is my big welcome home:

Heather glances up from a celebrity gossip magazine when I open enter front door of the apartment and eyes me disinterestedly. "I don't know where you expect to be sleeping," she snorts, and returns to her reading, legs sprawled across the couch that I'm guessing will end up my bed.

I deposit the two suitcases I carried on the floor and close the door behind me. It doesn't seem worth it to unpack the rest of my car now. Who knows if I'll end up staying here, or if I'll be forced to move over to Elise's.

Heather says, without looking up, "Besides, why are you here anyway? Shouldn't you be getting, like, a _job _now that you have your _big degree_?"

My sister is amazing. I know it's not like she's making a contribute herself. And yet, she laces that sentence with enough mockery to make me feel plenty guilty for not having a career all lined up.

The problem is, though, that I have no idea what I want to do with the rest of my life. I am the definition of _lost_.

"I heard Tina's living in the third bedroom," I say.

"Yeah, and she's not moving out for _you_," Heather replies. This time she does look up, but only to scowl at me. A scowl, which slowly turns into a smirk. "Dad likes her better."

"Well, Elise, I'm guessing, is paying for this place. And she likes me better."

Heather's face instantly hardens back into its frown. And I know that if Elise does make Tina move out, Heather _will _make my life miserable. Things are not looking good.

In a flash, Heather whirls out of the seat and is grabbing her purse from the end table. "I'm meeting Dad and Tina at the movies," she said. "I just wanted to welcome you home first." She smiles, with all of her satirical sweetness, then adds, "You can stay here and… wallow in your pathetic-ness, or whatever it is you do."

Then she is out the door. I am relieved.

She pokes her head in again. "By the way, Maggie called for you."

The door slams behind her.

I slump onto the couch and flick on the TV, numbly flipping through the channels. After a long day of driving, that was some greeting. I need a second to regroup before I call Maggie and deal with whatever personal crisis she's having.

At 23, the conundrum that is Maggie is both already married and still in need of a mommy. And I'm the best she's got in the mommy area. I suppose she too is the product of birth order: the baby. The perpetual child. And the way we all placate her, it isn't likely she'll grow up soon.

After awhile, I pick up my cell phone. With a resigned sigh, I open it up and hit my third speed dial. Maggie answers on the second ring.

"Camry, I _neeeeeeeed_ you," my younger sister whines into her end of the line.

"What's wrong, Maggie?" I ask with an inward sigh this time, unconsciously strapping on my maternal tone.

So she launches into some story about how she has to go spend a week at her and Jim's timeshare in Florida, and his sisters are coming, and some writer friend of Jim's, and I'm wondering where the needing me part comes in or why any of this is anything to really complain about.

"And you have to come, Camry," she concludes, answering question number one. "They're all a billion times smarter then me."

Logically it follows that Maggie thinks my presence will lower the cumulative IQ.

This is actually not a bad assumption.

She's still talking. "Besides, I don't think Jim wants to be married anymore. That's why he's probably bringing this stupid friend along. I _need _you, Camry."

Jim is, in all senses of the word, a sweetheart. He didn't inherit the upturned nose or party boy ways that so many of the second-generation wealthy do. Instead, he's affable, phlegmatic, and extremely tolerant—making him somewhat of the perfect match for my high-strung-high-drama sister.

A much better match for her than me. It must be said, he did have an idea to date me first, but that was just because he hadn't really met Maggie yet. Besides, I turned him down. He was post-Mark. Luckily, there's none of that awkward ex-factor between us. We never really dated. And now, he's totally just my brother.

But the point is, I very much doubt that he wants to divorce Maggie.

"When are you leaving?" I ask.

"Tomorrow. I already got you a plane ticket."

And maybe her presumption should annoy me, but it doesn't. Like I've said, I've got no prospects and no plan and currently no bedroom. I like Jim. I like his sisters. And Maggie is the only person who ever needs me. So I come when she calls.

"Who's the writer friend?" I ask casually, before making a final commitment. It's not that I really think by some bizarre coincidence Jim's writer is my writer. But better safe than sorry.

"I don't know. I've never even met him," Maggie says, and I can picture the nose-wrinkled expression on her face. "Jim found him in New York while he was up there at some business meeting. He's probably one of those starving artist types, you know, who call themselves writers and don't actually write anything."

"Okay," I say, feeling an odd mixture of relief and disappointment. "Okay." My writer is a real writer, and definitely not starving. Not with the New York Times best seller.

But like I said, I wasn't expecting anything.

- - - - - -

I spend the night repacking suitcases until I've got everything I think I'll need condensed into one and a carry-on. The next morning, I drive to Elise's and unload the rest of my car into the unused portion of her garage. An hour later, Maggie and Jim and their _driver_ pick me up here. The hour of small talk with Elise has been excruciating, and I am ready to go.

"It's going to be so much fun!" Maggie chirps beside me as we climb into the back seat of the car. I'm not sure if she's trying to reassure herself or me. She doesn't have to talk me into this. I'm happy to be along. It by far beats my other options.

Jim smiles pleasantly and settles into the front seat. He does not have the look of an unhappily married man.

I glance out my window in time to see Elise watching the car take off with a slight frown on her face before she abruptly returns inside her house. I look away, towards Maggie, to see that she has followed my gaze.

"I never could figure out why you guys don't like each other any more, Camry," Maggie says, turning imploringly to me. "You used to be Elise's favorite, you know?"

Okay, the truth. You want the truth?

The truth is Elise Carnell talked me out of marrying Mark Salvo, and I never could forgive her for it.

But I can't say this to Maggie. She doesn't know about Mark, not the whole of it anyway. She never even met him. The year Mark and I were together, Maggie was shipped of to some girls' school in France, where she was supposed to be learning the language. If I asked her, she probably wouldn't even remember the name of that guy I was dating freshman year. The name of that guy I almost married.

So I just say, "We still like each other."

"What_ever_," Maggie says, accepting my answer (or that she won't get any more out of me) with a shrug. "Anyway," she continues, "like I was saying, this is going to be so _so _fun."

-

**A/N: Woah, sorry for the delay. Finals were destroying my life, and then I got home and internet here was down. But anyways, there's a proper chapter for y'all! Hope you enjoyed. Thanks for all the awesome support & reviews at the beginning of this thing. I hope it turns out to be alright :o)**


	3. Comfort Books

**Nobody Screws Up a Second Shot**

-

**2. Comfort Books**

Because he thinks chivalry is still in style, Jim takes my carry-on for me after we've gone through airport security. Immediately, he regrets the decision. Wincing and struggling to hike the bag higher on his shoulder he asks, "My God, Cameron, what do you have in here? Bricks?"

"Books," Maggie answers for me, in a spiteful snarl. She's fighting-mad that Jim took my bag, not hers, and mouths to me: _DIVORCE_.

Jim is completely oblivious. He switches the bag from one shoulder to the other, trying to find a comfortable position. I wish I could just take it back from him. He probably weighs less than me. And that way, too, Maggie wouldn't be starring daggers into his back.

"Books?" Jim asks, turning for a second to raise an eyebrow at me as he leads us towards our gate number.

I open my mouth to respond, but again Maggie swoops in first. "Yeah, what are they, comfort books? She brings like ten with her where ever she goes. It's like a kid with a security blanket."

"Huh," Jim says, loosing interest, and plows forward. I'm beginning to wonder why I'm here. I'm beginning to wonder if I'm going to get a word in this whole vacation, and if Maggie's not taking her anxiety medication, and if maybe Jim _does_ want a divorce. I'm beginning to wonder if perhaps I should've just made long overdue peace with Elise and taken her up on her housing offer.

Also, I'm starting to get a caffeine headache.

"Aha!" Jim says triumphantly and points to our gate, 32B. He drops my carry-on into the first available seat and sits down beside it. I doubt he'll be offering to take it onto the plane for me.

We have forty-five minutes to kill. Jim's sisters aren't here yet; neither is his starving-artist friend. Maggie sits down in the seat beside Jim, but she is so not talking. She slouches, crosses her arms, and stares straight ahead at the distant departures schedule. Jim nudges her in the side with his elbows, but she doesn't respond. I need a coffee or something.

"Do you want to watch that?" I ask Jim, motioning to my bag. He shrugs, and I tell him I'll be back. Walking away, I hear him ask Maggie, "Why aren't you talking to me?"

"I'm not not talking to you," Maggie replies nonchalantly. You have to wonder about their communication. For now, though I am happily out of hearing range.

The thing I usually like about airports is the bustle—how everybody in an airport has a purpose. Everybody's got somewhere to go. Today, though, I amble through the halls surveying the masses of people power-walking past me, and it just reminds me that I am the opposite of them. I am purposeless. I am going nowhere.

With a sigh, I turn my attention from the throngs and stop at one of those over-priced bakery shops that every airport has. I order a vanilla latte and stand off to the side to wait for it. This, I figure, is probably my last moment of peace for the next month and I should savor it. _Savor_, I tell myself. But I can't stop thinking about my life, and what a horrible mess my life is.

And then it happens.

A voice from behind me, one that I almost recognize but can't quite place, says my name.

"Cameron?"

I turn around. And it is Mark Salvo.

Mark Salvo.

Mark Salvo.

Oh God.

"Hi," I say, or more like squeak since the wind has been completely knocked out of me. _Come on_, I tell myself. _Pull it together. It was bound to happen someday._

The thing is though, with six million plus people in this world, it was not bound to happen. Odds were by far in my favor—I should have never seen Mark again.

"Wow," he says. He sounds as surprised as I feel.

I can't take my eyes off of him. The Mark Salvo in front of me is a more polished version of the Mark Salvo I knew. A grown up version, perhaps. He's traded his standard T-shirt and short ensemble for pants and a black-and-white striped button down. He's let his hair grow a little, and it looks good. _He _looks good. And I suddenly remember that I didn't blow my hair dry this morning and I'm wearing my glasses.

The moment is sufficiently awkward, but quickly enough Mark's face eases into smile, pleasant enough but also indifferent and cool. "How are you?" he asks, with the same manner.

I start to say great, but change it to good halfway through so that what actually comes out of my mouth is something like "grood." God. I might as well melt into a puddle of humiliation right here at Mark's feet.

He seems to be pleased by my obvious discomfort—or at least mildly amused. He crosses his arms and raises one eyebrow to let me know he did notice my vocabulary screw-up. Then he continues with the impersonal small talk. "And what are you doing now? You're out of college, yeah?"

"Just," I say. Then to prove I can get out something polysyllabic, I add, "I'm still figuring things out, as far as what I'm going to do."

"Uhuh," he says, and we fall into silence. A silence that doesn't seem to bother Mark, but is killing me. I'd ask him how he's been, but I already know the answer: rich, successful, semi-famous. I don't know what else to ask. Then out of nowhere he breaks the silence and asks, "So you're family hasn't married you off then to some independently wealthy oil tycoon or foreign royalty or something?"

My mouth might drop open, I don't know. But I'm sure I don't know how to respond to that very blatant attack. I'm also sure that Mark has not forgiven me and will never forgive me, no matter how many best-sellers he milks our past relationship for. And I just want very much to get through these five minutes of torture and on with my life, where I never see Mark again.

And then, miraculously, my latte is done. The kid behind the counter calls my name. "I should…" I say, motioning to it.

"Right," Mark cuts in briskly. "Well, we both have planes to catch. But it was good to see you Cameron. Take care."

I smile meekly, grab my coffee and scuttle past him. But just when it seems like I'm home free, Mark draws me back again.

"Camry," he says. I reluctantly turn to face him again.

"Did you read it?" he asks.

For the first time there's something in his voice beyond cold civility. Curiosity is there. Maybe even hopefulness. I look him over, from his expectant face to his sophisticated wardrobe. And I think: _you don't owe him anything. You don't even know him. It's not the same Mark._

"No," I say.

Immediately his face hardens back into a mask, giving away nothing. "Right," he says coolly. "I don't know why I ever expected you might."

"I have to go," I say, and I get out of there. On my way back to Gate 32B, I almost knock over six people—that's how much I can't pay attention to where I'm going. My heart is pumping, adrenaline rushing. _It's over,_ I tell myself. It's over, it's over. You got through it. You'll never see him again. It's over.

When I get the gate, Jim's sister's have joined him and Maggie. Laurel, the older, is sitting on a seat across from her brother, touching up her make up with a small, green compact. Maggie has moved across the row to sit beside her. Apparently, Maggie's still not not talking to Jim.

Maggie says, "What happened to you?" and cocks her head curiously. I'm sure, as the expression goes, that I look like I've seen a ghost. Because I have.

"Nothing," I say. "I'm fine." Laurel glances up at me and offers half a smile, then returns to her work. Laurel and I, it's not that we _don't_ get along. But we really don't _get_ along either.

Bianca, Jim's younger sister, is on her cell phone, pacing up and down beside the rows of chairs. But she puts a hand over the mouth piece to say, "Hi Cameron," and smiles at me. I do better with Bianca. We kind of like each other.

I move my carry-on from the seat beside Jim and sit down. "Where's your friend?" I ask, trying to make conversation to distract myself from thinking about the run-in with my ex.

"Hmm?" Jim says. "Oh, Mark? Who knows. Listen, why isn't Maggie talking to me?"

I can't answer because my brain stopped processing one sentence back. Did he say Mark? No way. There's no way. It has to be a different Mark. Life cannot be that awful.

"Mark's here!" Laurel says gleefully and snaps her compact shut. She bounds up from her seat and off towards the notorious Mark, who I'm afraid to look at yet.

"Laurel's already in love with him," Jim says to me complacently. "She's the one who wanted to bring him along."

A different Mark. It has to be a different Mark. Reluctantly, I force myself to turn my head in the direction of the last member of our party. And it isn't a different Mark. It's Mark Salvo, and he's staring at me.

"You have to be kidding me," I mutter to know one in particular, since Jim's already out of his seat to shake Mark's hand. I can't help watching as Laurel throws herself at Mark, kissing him on the cheek. Mark jerks out his daze and hugs her back, if with less enthusiasm. Then he says hello to Maggie and Bianca. And then Jim turns to introduce him to me.

"And this is Maggie's sister," Jim begins, but Mark finishes for him.

"Cameron," he says.

Jim looks surprised, as does everyone else. "Oh, you two know each other?"

I nod my head. "In college we—"

But Mark cuts in again, "had American Lit together," he finishes shortly, as if he were afraid that I was about to tell everyone we used to be engaged.

Laurel's looking me up and down now, like she's sizing up her competition. She doesn't like this unexpected twist—that Mark and I used to know each other. "Small world," she says, with a touch of irony. She has no idea.

Mark won't look at me anymore. Which is fine, because I can't seem to _stop _looking at him, and I don't really want him to notice that. This whole thing is so surreal to me. I've yet to grasp that it's really happening. That I'm about to spend close to a month in close quarters with my ex-fiancé, who seems to be dangerously close to hooking up with my brother-in-law's sister.

That's what he's busying himself with anyway. He's devoted himself full-force to some spunky repartee with Laurel, who is all too happy about it. Turning away, I notice Bianca. She's still on the phone, but she's managing to send Laurel nasty looks all the same. As if she's like to be in on the repartee herself.

I step across the aisle and slide into the seat beside Maggie. "Is Bianca still dating Todd?" I ask. Bianca's been with the same guy for three years—a bass player in an emo band that still working on getting signed.

Maggie shrugs. "I don't know. I guess. Who do you think she's on the phone with?" Which isn't a certain enough answer to satisfy me. I call Jim over and ask him the same question.

"Yeah," he says, "as far as I know." He looks over towards Mark and his sisters and shrugs. "But you know how it goes. What Laurel has, Bee wants. And vice versa. Sibling rivalry. Besides, you know Mom and Dad are never too happy about her dating Todd. I think all that disapproval gets a little rough on her."

_I know much more about family pressure than anybody realizes_, I think, with a glance towards Mark. He's still flirting with Laurel. But briefly he glances at me and for a second our eyes meet and lock.

Then the flight attendant announces that they're boarding our rows in first class, and we all grab our things and head for the line. Somewhere in the shuffle, I end behind Mark in the line. I must be looking at him kind of accusatory, because he says to me as he shows the attendant his ticket, "As if I knew."

With that, he hurries away from me to catch up with Laurel. I follow slowly behind, waiting for Maggie. On the plane, I'm not surprised or unhappy to find that my seat is beside her. For twenty minutes, she blathers on about this divorce Jim wants, and then she falls asleep. Once she's safely snoring, I pull my carry-on out from underneath the seat in front of me and open it up.

I have to dig because the book I'm looking for is at the bottom of the bag. But I find it, and place it on my tray, smoothing the cover carefully with one hand. _Judas Kiss_, by Mark Salvo. This is a comfort book, more than any other book I own. It reminds me of just who I am, and just how much I've messed up, even if I don't allow myself to read it anymore.

But today, I know that I'm going to break my rules. I know that by the end of this two-hour flight I will have read this book from cover to cover. But under these special circumstances, I think that a little rule-breaking should be okay.

And so I start at page one, at the very first sentence. But I can't even make it through the first chapter before my eyes to blur up with tears. I have to close the book again, because I can't even read it. I can't see, and I can't concentrate. I have to face the truth.

So here's the truth: I am so not over it. I am not over it, and I am not over him. And this is going to be one hell of a vacation.

-------

**A/N: I just wanted to say how glad I am to see some of my faithful reviewers back again on this fic. Y'all know who you are, and it just wouldn't be the same without you. And I'm super excited about all the new reviewers too. :o) Please keep reviewing everyone, and let me know how I'm doing.**

**Sophie: **Actually, I've never watched _October Road_, so it must be one of those annoying coincidences. Lol. Oh well.


	4. Mark: An Interlude

**2.5. Mark: An Interlude**

I still don't like planes.

Laurel finds this cute and endearing, as I expected she might, and offers to hold my hand during take off. I decline, coming up with some good line about how I'd probably squeeze the life out of it, and I don't want her hand to have to suffer on account of my irrational fears. Legitimate enough, but Laurel might still take it as rejection. She purses her lips anyway—only a moment, but I don't miss it.

I am having to remind myself that I like Laurel, very much actually. That my life is lonely from time to time and that two weeks ago, in New York, I considered her exactly the kind of benign presence that could do a lot for me.

But now, the unwitting discovering is blurring my vision. She has not read the book. I cannot see around it.

The magnitude of the fact is staggering. Cameron did not read my book. Not even out of sheer curiosity. It wasn't as if she could've missed it. The book was everywhere. And at the very least, she could have picked up a ratty two-dollar paperback at a used bookstore, or even checked out the copy at her local library. But she didn't. She simply was not curious.

I can't fathom what it means. Expect that a year that took such a hold of me—a year that I spent two more years trying to exorcize—was for her a year to forget.

And that's what the book was: exorcism. Exorcism, and maybe a little revenge.

How silly of me to think that I could ever hurt her.

-

**A/N: I'm overwhelmed by the response I'm getting to this story. Overwhelmed, and a bit terrified I won't live up to expectations. But anyway, I toyed with whether I wanted to put this in here or not. In the end, I decided to go with it (obviously). Expect a full chapter in a couple of days.**


	5. Settling In

**Nobody Screws Up a Second Shot**

**3. Settling In**

_- - - - - _

_Freddie met Cam on his first day of American Lit, the only class he ever took in college that had an imposed, pre-made seating chart. The irony of this never escaped him: that the girl who would change and become and ruin his life was the one girl he was forced to sit by._

_That first day, he arrived before her. Professor Gluk had the seating chart projected on a transparency at the front of the classroom. With some difficulty, Freddie located his seat in the third row, then curiously looked at the names of the people who would sit beside him. On his left was Jack Dailey, who he knew and who was not very interesting. On his right was a mysterious person named Cam, who he decided he very much wanted to meet._

_When she arrived, she was not what Freddie expected. He had imagined her blonde and ugg-booted, with very white teeth and very little self-consciousness. He had imagined this because this is what he wanted—someone green and a bit silly, who he would have to walk through Hawthorn and Melville, but who would provide cheerful, flirtatious stimulation through the ninety minute class periods. _

_Cam was brunette and ugg-boot free. She was bookish and quiet. She wouldn't need help, and she wouldn't be fun. Freddie could tell, just by looking at her. He was disappointed._

_However, he did not believe strongly in first impressions._

_In this case, he might have done better if he had._

—Judas Kiss

_- - - -_

We arrive to find the air conditioner broken.

Jim calls the landlord straight off and gets his wife. She apologizes profusely, but her husband is out. She's vague about when he'll back—"Not evasive, just disorganized," Jim says—but promises as soon as he walks in the door she'll send him over.

The rest of us have settled down around the living room. Jim joins us, sitting beside his youngest sister on the love seat. It's the closest chair to him. But there is, notably, an open chair beside Maggie, and I'm sure she's taking this as further proof.

It's suffocating in the house—hot, muggy. We are already dripping sweat around our hairlines and sticking to the leather sofas. Laurel fans herself with a small stack of papers, which even from here I can see have Mark's handwriting all over them. Bianca is holding her hair up with one hand. She says to Jim, "Why don't _you _know how to fix an air conditioner?"

Jim shrugs congenially. Laurel pokes Mark in the side, and her playful familiarity with him hits me in the gut. She asks Mark, "Why don't _you_?" And Mark mimics Jim's shrug.

Bianca, on cue, looks at her sister and says, "The men in our lives are not men."

"Well, Mark's a writer. Off course he's a pansy." That from Jim.

There's some laughing, and Mark says good-naturedly, "There's nothing I like better than being reduced to a cultural stereotype."

I can see why Maggie was intimidated by this foursome. It's not something I would've wanted to go alone either. The fast pace of their repartee is too much for either of us to keep up with, and we are reduced to silence. On a good day, I might have been able to contribute something. But today is not a good day.

I can't keep my mind away from Mark—from wondering what's written on Laurel's papers, and what he's thinking, or if he's ever going to look at me again. My guess there would be that he's not. Stony silence seems to be his chosen defense.

Bianca opens a window, but it doesn't do much to alleviate the debilitating humidity. Laurel is not going to stand for spending her holiday this way.

"Let's go to the beach," she says.

She's already up and dragging her suitcase to the bathroom by the time Jim points out that somebody is going to have to stay here to wait for our landlord's dubious arrival. Laurel pauses two steps from the bathroom doorway and looks expectantly at me.

I was going to offer anyway. "I'll stay," I tell Jim.

"Cameron will stay," Laurel echoes gleefully, and closes the bathroom door behind her.

"Cameron shouldn't have to," Jim calls after her. Nice of him to stand up for me, but I can't see any better alternative. Besides, I don't mind. I really, really don't mind. I'm all too happy to pack them all away to beach and spend some time alone, stealing myself for the vacation ahead of me.

"I'd rather stay, actually," I say.

Jim replies with his trademark shrug, while Laurel burst of the bathroom, resplendent in a black bikini and sheer cover up. She's tanned and toned and basically perfect. I can't even criticize her bathing suit for being too tacky or slutty, because it isn't either. For the record, I'm still wearing my glasses.

Laurel isn't happy to find everyone else still just sitting around. "Come on people!" she chirps, one hand finding its way to her hip, accentuating her perfect form. "Let's get a move on!"

The rest of the group begins following her initiative. Except for Maggie, who abruptly declares, "I'll stay too."

I know my sister well enough to know what this is: passive aggressive warfare. And I know Jim well enough to know he won't get it. He'll just think Maggie's not in the mood for the beach. And his not reacting will turn into another item on the list Maggie's keeping in head: more evidence that Jim wants out of the marriage.

And so, to avoid the crisis, I must convince Maggie to go. Besides, I really don't want the company. I only want a moment to myself.

Once everyone's gone off to change, I say to my sister, "You don't really want to stay, Maggie."

Maggie has a throw pillow in her lap, and is picking at a loose thread around the corner of it. "It's not like Jim would _notice_," she answers bitterly.

I could very easily tell her now that Jim isn't worth punishing herself over, and I know that it would work. She would decide that I'm right, and hop right up now and put on her bathing suit. But I also know that I would have to deal with the aftermath later: Maggie on an empowerment trip. God help us all.

I settle for, "That's not true Maggie." She rolls her eyes very deliberately. I add, "You guys just need better communication."

It's ironic, isn't it, that I find myself playing the part of the relationship guru.

But I can see that Maggie's beginning to cave. Maybe just because she _really _doesn't want to sit in the sweaty house with me, while everyone else is frolicking on the beach. But still, it's working. She taps her finger on the throw pillow and tentatively says, "Well, it's not like staying here is going to solve anything…"

"No, it's not," I say.

And just like that she pops off of the couch. "Jim, I'm _come_-ing!" she yells, as she heads toward the room they've already claimed.

Soon enough, they're leaving. Jim stops halfway out the door to ask one more time if I'm sure I'm alright, and everyone turns to hear my expected answer. Even Mark looks at me, impassively in his case. I say I'm okay. I am positive that I'm okay. And they leave, thank God, they leave.

After they've gone, I try to deep breathe my way into Nirvana. But while I can still hear the rental car pulling out of the driveway, I get a call from Elise, which seriously destroys my calm.

I always answer when Elise calls me, even when I don't want to. It's either out of guilt or some kind of pseudo parent-child subjection. But either way, it seems my sober responsibility to pick up.

"Arrived safely then?" she asks in her Polite Voice.

I mumble some kind of affirmative. She tells me not to mumble, then launches into an unexpected pitch for Eliot Camden. "I've _just _learned that Eliot _happens _to be staying near Orlando. That's not far from where you are, is it? Such a pleasant coincidence. You _must _look him up, Cameron. He'll be _so _pleased to meet you; he's heard so much about you, you know."

She continued to tell me exactly what hotel the famous Eliot Camden is staying at, while my mind trails off. I don't intend to look Eliot up, no matter how much he's heard about me.

I've heard enough about _him _to write a biography. Eliot is Elise's "unfortunate nephew," to quote her. He is also her ideal match for me, despite his playboy ways. She's convinced that life in the fast lane is a stage he'll outgrow, and that he's really a good boy underneath. Besides, he's all sorts of good-looking (he actually is—I've seen pictures), has impeccable manners, and I think she'd like to officially get me into the family.

I have been avoiding Eliot Camden for many, many years.

Elise finishes her speech about Eliot, and that seems to be all she has to say to me. I've nothing to say to hear either, since we've just arrived. I could tell her that Mark's here, which would freak her out nicely. But I think I'd like to keep Mark to myself as much as I can. So Elise and I make just as much small talk as we have to, and quickly get off the phone.

Then I turn on the TV and flip through the channels until I find something numbingly mindless enough to distract me until the landlord shows up. My carry-on bag is silently beckoning me from its place on the floor, but I'm ignoring it. I've already blown through _Judas Kiss _once today. I'm not going to pick it up again. I have to put some kind of limits on my raging pathetic-ness.

But this whole Mark business—all I can say is that existentialism might have it right. The world really must be all chaos and randomness. There can't be a God, or a Great Spirit, or any kind of orderly system. There can be purpose or meaning behind everything that happens to me. Because what purpose could possibly be behind this—behind Mark's sudden reintroduction back into my life?

Well, punishment comes to mind. But I thought that's what the book was. Honestly how much punishment does one girl need? How much?

Anyway, the landlord never comes.

- - - - -

Somewhere around eleven pm, Maggie comes into my room. Not in the mood for her marriage crisis, I quickly shut my eyes and hope she didn't notice they were open.

"I know you're not sleeping because nobody is," she says, and turns on my lights.

The rest of the household isn't sleeping because of the heat, which has only decreased slightly since nightfall. Normally, the heat wouldn't bother me. But I find I've other things to keep me awake.

There will be no getting rid of Maggie, and so I reluctantly open my eyes. "Come on," she says. "There's a ceiling fan in the den."

I don't really understand the significance of that, but I allow her to drag me out of my room and the stairs. I'm in my pajamas—an oversized T-shirt and a pair of flannel shorts—but Maggie's in hers too, and it doesn't really bother me anyway.

When we reach the den and its infamous ceiling fan, everyone else is already there. In fact, they've created what looks like a slumber party. There are three couches in the room, one with a pull-out bed, and they've dragged the mattress out from the room down here that Laurel and Bianca are sharing. I wonder whose idea this was. Whoever's, I don't like it. Not if I'm expected to sleep down here, in the same room with Mark Salvo. Ridiculous as it is, that's too close of proximity for me.

But sleep down here is exactly what I'm expected to do. I get to share the pull-out couch with Maggie. The slumber-party idea turns out to be Laurel's, who is thrilled with her brilliance. Everyone is thrilled with her brilliance. Far be it from me to rain on their parade.

We all settle in to our respective makeshift beds, and I have to admit: the ceiling fan does really help. There's a moment of quiet and then Bianca says jokingly, "I feel like we should play Truth Or Dare or something."

"I dare you to call Mom and Dad up and tell them you've eloped with Todd," Laurel quickly replies.

"Har har," Bianca says dryly, with the slightest edge to her tone. "I was going to pick truth anyway." She doesn't like the mention of Todd, not with the high-stakes competition the sisters have going on for Mark. I feel for Todd. I've liked him the times I've met him, and from what I've seen of his and Bianca's relationship, it's a good one. I hope she realizes that before it's too late, and lays off Mark.

I also just hope she lays off Mark.

And also, it shouldn't matter to me, since I'm not remotely in the competition myself. If Bianca gives up, that just leaves Laurel home free.

See, this is why I shouldn't be sleeping in the same room as him.

Continuing with the Truth-Or-Dare joke, Laurel says to the room: "Truth: does anybody snore?"

Involuntarily, I almost say that Mark does a little. But I stop myself in time, and mask the beginning of my sentence with a cough.

Mark says, "I do a little."

"Oh great," Jim says.

"You do _too_," Maggie says.

Jim insists that that _cannot _be the truth. Maggie repeats her allegation. I'm afraid that the disagreement might escalate into a full scale war, and break in with something about how we will just have to exile both Jim and Mark then.

Laurel is delighted with my comment, and adopts the idea as if it were her own. She continues badgering Mark mostly about the threatened exile, and Mark is cute with her. And I bury my head in my pillow and try and pray and try and pray to just fall asleep.

- - -

**A/N: Sorry folks. That chapter was supposed to be up much sooner, but my grandmother got sick so I've been spending a lot of time over there. She's ok now. Anyway, there is a full chapter for y'all. Review, review!!**


	6. Mark as a Person, Me as Pinocchio

**Nobody Screws Up a Second Shot**

**-**

**4. Mark as a Person, Me as Pinocchio **

Actually, there are two Mark Salvos: Mark the person, and Mark the myth.

The rest of the world may know Mark as a person—the Mark Salvo that lives and breathes and dresses like a yuppy snob. But I don't know that Mark. The Mark that exists for me is Mark the myth—a larger than life version of Mark as he is. Mark's become a legend in my mind—mythologized and canonized, the Jason to my Medea. Or maybe the Medea to my Jason. Yeah, probably that way around.

What I'm saying is, I don't really think of him as really real anymore. He's a part of my past too big to be real. And yet here he is, inhabiting the bedroom a floor above mine. His shoes are piled by the door with everyone else's. The Sinatra tunes he's always humming to himself are getting stuck in my head.

This is Mark the person, and I'm going to have to get used to him.

In the morning, my sister thinks that we need to make pancakes for breakfast. So she and I take a five minute drive to the nearest convenience store and come back with Bisquick, butter, and maple syrup. Maggie—who's dramatics start slowly and build momentum during the day—is relatively calm while we cook. She chatters about yesterday's trip to the beach while I mix batter and listen.

"And Mark's not so bad really. I mean, I know I didn't want him to come, but he's totally sweat. What was he like in college?"

Thus far, I have not told any actual lies. But now the elaborate game of deceptions begins in earnest. "I barely new him," I say, and my nose begins to grow.

"Oh," Maggie says, sprinkling water onto our pan to see if it's hot. The water sizzles and evaporates. Maggie pours a little pool of pancake batter into its place. "He said something about you though. I think that he barely recognized you or something." Maggie wrinkles her nose. "I don't think he meant it in a nice way, actually. He had this weird kind of look on his face."

I calmly take a spatula and flip Maggie's pancake. But calm is just the surface. On the inside, my stomach is doing cartwheels. Maggie seems alarmingly close to stumbling upon something true.

But then she shrugs and continues benignly, "Laurel and Bianca both like him, anyway. I think he's more into Laurel, which is probably better anyways since Bianca's got Todd or whatever. If that's still going on."

And thus the crisis is averted.

For the record, what Maggie says to me about Mark doesn't bother me much. So he barely recognized me. So he thinks I've prematurely aged, and I've put on a few pounds, and I pull my hair back just about every day which doesn't do much for my longish face. So he said as much to a group of my almost and actual relatives. It doesn't bother me.

That Mark would think these things about me, and say these things about me, fits in perfectly with my mythologized version of him. Because Mark as a myth is, above all things, angry.

So I'm not fazed. Not one bit.

- - - - -

Our landlord finally does come this morning, while Maggie and I are setting the table. Bob Croft is a man in his forties with slightly graying hair and wearing the all-American uniform—flip-flops, shorts, and a Hawaiian patterned shirt. He has a firm handshake, a booming voice, and a face that almost constantly falls into a jovial smile. He brings his wife with him, who's equally good-natured and laid-back, with her hair in a youthful ponytail. Jim, being Jim, naturally invites them to eat before we all tackle the air conditioning.

Maggie sits down at the table beside her husband, while I return alone to the kitchen to quickly mix up another batch of pancakes. This is the difference in our personalities.

While I'm mixing the batter and listening to the laughter wafting in from the dining room, I suddenly feel the presence of someone behind me watching. I turn around, and am confronted by Mark leaning against the kitchen doorway, eyes on me. He asks, "Do you want help?"

I take him in. This morning, he's dressed in shorts and a band T, feet bare. His arms are crossed casually across his chest, and his face in neutral—without irony or calculated indifference. This is Mark as I remember him.

"Okay," I say.

Mark straightens and by the way he moves I realize he's about to leave the room, not enter it. I'm confused.

He clears that up for me. "I'll tell Bianca. She wanted me to ask," he says. And with that, Mark the person is gone.

I return to my batter, feeling cross at having been duped. I'm sure he's laughing at me. Mark is being perfectly civil, but he is not being nice. He's making me guess at how to react to him, dance around his shifting attitudes. He pretends to offer me an olive branch, then draws it back. I feel more and more like a puppet, with Mark pulling the strings.

A moment later, Bianca joins me in the kitchen. She looks mildly cross herself. "Do you really need help?" she asks. "Because I'm not really good at cooking things."

"Not really," I say.

I expect her to leave, but she ambles across the kitchen and pulls herself onto he counter beside where I'm working. "If we were the Brady Bunch," she says, "I would be Jan and Laurel would be Marcia. Marcia, Marcia, Marcia." She scowls.

"And I'd be the maid," I say.

"Or the mom," Bianca muses. "What was so great about Marcia anyway?"

"Her hair, I think," I reply, and Bianca grins. Are we being a little bit mean at Laurel's expense? Of course we are. And it's probably unfair of us, and we should probably feel bad. But I don't think either of us does. Bianca doesn't know it, but I know exactly where she's coming from. I don't like watching Laurel garner all of Mark's attention anymore than she does. I'm dealing with the same deep-seeded bitterness.

On the other hand, there is the voice in my head saying: _You've got no right to be bitter. You did this to yourself. _You _broke up with _him, _you stupid bitch._

And probably a voice in Bianca's head is saying: _You're supposed to be with Todd. _

We ignore our voices.

She says, "You know, when we met Mark in New York, he seemed like fair game at first. But you know how Laurel takes everything over. All she has to do is do that cute little thing where she bites her lip and any guy's salivating at her feet. It's completely disgusting."

"Bianca," I say, sort of interrupting the acidic monologue. "What about Todd?"

Bianca demeanor perceptibly alters. Usually, she's one of the most open people you'll ever meet. She'll tell anyone anything about herself, whether they want to know it or not sometimes. But when I mention Todd it's like a curtain goes up between us. Her face blanks out and she offers a noncommittal shrug.

"I don't think it's going to work out with Todd." The line sounds so rehearsed. And she continues without much conviction, "I mean, I haven't seen him in—what?—three months? How's _that _a relationship anyway?"

"Bianca—" I begin, but she cuts me off.

"Hey, you done there? We should bring these out." With that, she grabs my new plate of pancakes and retreats to the dining room. I sigh, and I follow.

- - - - - - -

Around the table, the topic of conversation is naturally Mark. It turns out Judy Croft, the wife, has read his book. She hasn't only read it; she's book club-ed the thing. A discussion group and everything. So of course, she wants to know all about his inspiration.

He does not even glance my way. He says offhandedly, not missing a beat, "Oh, I knew this girl in college."

Fortunately nobody's looking at me, and even if they were they surely wouldn't understand why my face whitens. I don't think I should try to eat any pancakes. I'm not sure that they'll stay down. I'm not sure where this conversation is headed, and that makes me terribly, terribly nervous.

"You mean the book's about you then?" Judy asks eagerly. "I mean, inspired by?"

"Of course it's about me. I'm terribly narcissistic," Mark grins, and Judy grins along with him. She's delighted to find evidence that Mark Salvo is the deeply sensitive man she always pictured him to be. In fact, the whole table is grinning along with Mark. There's something I remember correctly about him—the way his easy manner wins everyone over.

Then Jim starts laughing. "Mark," he says. "Mark. You are one sorry sap if that book is about you."

Mark shrugs and says with the usually charming nonchalance, "At least I'm a rich sorry sap." And this time, he does look directly at me. Another swift right hook.

His attention is turned away however before I have a chance to read any significance in his expression. Laurel is plucking a piece of pancake from his plate with her fingers and saying, "Damn, maybe I _should _read that book." She put the pancake in her mouth and licks her fingers cutely. Bianca manages to catch my eye, and rolls hers.

"You mean you haven't?" Mark asks with feigned injury.

Laurel looks at him with mischief in her eyes. "Somebody told me it was overrated," she answers, a smirk drawing up the corners of her mouth.

Mark places a hand dramatically over his chest and says something like, "You wound me." But I'm trying to block it out. Their adorable banter is almost enough to make me keel over and die. Just die. Right here.

But Bianca, on the other hand, spots an opportunity. "Wasn't me. I liked it," she says carelessly, without really looking up at either Laurel or Mark. But whatever front of disinterest she putting up, I know just what Bianca's done. She's played a good card. Laurel knows it too, and her expression immediately sours.

Mark turns to Bianca and looks at her for the first time with interest. "You read my book?" he asks.

Bianca looks up at Mark and shrugs. "Sure," she says.

Jim feels the need to explain. "Believe it or not, Bianca's a reader."

Mark leans back in his chair. "What do you read?"

Bianca shrugs again. "I dunno." Then she adds with touch of the self-deprecating that does her justice, "Whatever sells well."

Mark laughs. Laurel scowls a little. Maggie jumps in, "Camry reads too. Like, everything. I bet she's read your boo—."

Mark cuts her off short before she can finish that last word. "She hasn't," he says curtly. Then he turns his gaze on my pallid face. And for the first time in the conversation, he speaks directly to me: "Have you?"

I know that Maggie was only making an attempt to contribute something to a conversation she found herself peripheral to. I know she feels horribly out-leagued in this crowd, that her life isn't charmed either, that she thinks her husband wants to divorce her. But at this precise moment, I can't afford her any sympathy. And I hate her a little for bringing me into things.

"I heard it was overrated," I say, mimicking Laurel. I don't know what comes over me to make me say that. I'm not the kind of person to say those kinds of things. I'm neither coy nor deliberately cruel. But whatever was, or is, between Mark and me seems to have become a game of hurt and hurt back. I retaliate as a defense.

Laurel is delighted. "Ohhhh, high five," she says to me. She stands and leans across the table to actually high five me. I unenthusiastically meet her hand.

Mark reacts to her and not to me. "I don't see why you're so happy to see my ego beaten to a pulp," he says playfully.

She slugs him in the arm. "Just trying to bring that narcissism down a notch or two."

Then Jim and Bob Croft, who have spent the later half of the conversation having their own private conference about the air conditioning, decide it's time to go give that thing a look. Mark stands to go with them. But before walking away from the table, he points a finger at Bianca and says, "Don't think you're off the hook. I want to know what you thought of the book. And what you're reading."

I'm glad Bianca's won a round. Because I certainly haven't.

- - - - - - - -

It turns out, the air conditioner is not broken after all. Jim and Mark just didn't know how to turn it on. The boys are properly harassed by the girls for their ineptitude. Mark tells Laurel and Bianca if they had hearts, they would really leave him alone; he's already taking a beating at breakfast. Why don't they harass Jim?

But of course they prefer harassing Mark. Brothers aren't nearly as fun as prospective boyfriends.

Mark's mention of Jim does have one effect: it reminds me of what I've meant to be doing. I wanted to pay attention to Jim and Maggie, to see for myself how things stand between them. And here I've been completely preoccupied with Mark. I don't think you can exactly blame me, with the turn the conversation took. Just the same, I really need to develop a little self-restraint.

So I try to redirect my attention to Maggie and Jim. But just as I do, Judy Croft remembers that she wanted to know more about that girl—the one Mark wrote a book about.

_I don't want to hear this_, I think. So I try not to listen. I notice that Maggie is standing next to Jim, one finger hooked into the belt loop of his jeans. He doesn't seem to notice her.

I hear Mark's reply anyway. "Oh, I'd rather not talk about it."

"Too painful?" Jim asks, with a hint of mocking. He rests his left hand on the back of Maggie's head. I think: _this is not a man who wants a divorce._

Mark says, "Too awkward." He speaks with his usual tone. He doesn't take another look in my direction. But I know anyway that he's speaking to me and that what he's doing is a kindness. This is golden opportunity for Mark to take a stab, and he's not taking it. What was I thinking? Mark Salvo isn't the hurt-and-hurt-back type. I feel deeply guilty for what I said before about his book, for lying about reading it, for five years back not taking a single one of his phone calls after I gave back the ring.

Then Laurel says something like: isn't Mark a narcissist? Shouldn't he like to talk about himself? And Mark says, only when he can brag. And Jim asks me, "You really haven't read his book?"

And I realize there aren't two Marks anymore. There is only one: Mark is Mark the person, and not just a person, but a good person.

I, on the other hand, am turning into something not completely human: something with wooden arms, and wooden legs, and a very long nose.

I tell Jim, "I really haven't."

A very long nose indeed.

- - - -

**A/N: So the story behind the extremely long delay here is that I was working at a camp this summer, which meant no internet and no time really. Then school started up again, which was hectic. But I'm back! Hurray! Review, reviewers! Lots of reviews may compel me to get the next chapter up super quickly, to make up for how long this one took. Is that bribery? Lol.**


	7. Two Subplots

**Nobody Screws Up a Second Shot**

**-**

**5. Two Subplots**

There are two consequences to our morning with the Crofts. The first is that we have air-conditioning. The second involves Mark, and takes longer to explain.

Upon finding out that Bianca is a reader, Mark begins to show her a fair share of attention. He likes to talk to her about books. The truth is—knowing Mark, I can tell—that he finds her merely intellectually stimulating. He still tends toward Laurel for other types of stimulation—his repartee and flirting is reserved for her. But he finds Bianca useful for intelligent conversation on the subjects he cares about.

Jim puts it best: Mark is having his cake and eating it too.

Laurel and Bianca, usually such good friends, turn into rivals for Mark's attention. They both are enamored of their brother's charming friend. And both are equally aware of their areas of success and failure in relation to him. They both want to usurp the other's strong point. Bianca wants to be flirtatious. Laurel wants to be intellectual. Mark himself can't help but be bemused.

And into all of this turmoil enters Todd.

He comes on Tuesday morning to everyone's surprise, including Bianca's, who must have forgotten that he was coming amidst her Mark infatuation. When he arrives, he enters house through the unlocked back door. So the first person he runs into in the house is me, in the laundry room, where I'm ironing my and (voluntarily) Maggie's clothes.

"Cinderella," he says.

I turn to find him struggling a duffle bag and a guitar case through the doorway. I've met Todd more than a few times, and we get along well. When it comes to Bianca, I've always been pulling for him. Long before Mark was his rival. Partly, it's because I see the similarity between Bianca's situation and what mine was with Mark. Her family doesn't approve, and I'm hoping for her to make the choice that I didn't.

"Hey Todd," I say, on one had surprised to see him, on the other hand not. "Didn't know you were coming."

Todd deposits his cargo on the laundry room floor and takes a seat on top of the washing machine. He pushes his blonde hair off of his forehead and shrugs his shoulders. "Doesn't surprise me," he says. "What's up with Bianca anyway? Doesn't answer her voicemails." His tone implies how aware he is that something isn't right. As if to further the point he adds, "I came a day early."

What he means is, he came a day early because he knew something was wrong.

I press the iron against a pair of black Bermuda shorts and watch the steam rise from it. "I suppose I should warn you…" I trail off. I suppose I should warn him, out of kindness. But then again, who likes to be the bearer of bad news?

But Todd shrugs again and says, "Naw, don't tell me. I'll find out soon enough." He leans back on his elbows. There is a pause. He says, "Okay, give me a hint."

I finish the shorts and unplug the iron from the wall. Enough is enough for now. "Wellll…" I draw out the word, struggling for an appropriate thing to tell him. I finally settle for, "Jim brought a friend." I feel that this is telling enough.

And Todd nods, seeming to understand what I meant by that. "Well, lead on," he says solemnly, as a man resigned to his fate. He hops off of the washing machine and picks his things back up. I grab my pile of ironed laundry and head out of the laundry room and up the stairs, with Todd close behind me.

Mark is the first person we run into, coming down the stairs and we're coming up. He looks at Todd without recognition.

"This is Todd," I tell him.

The name doesn't seem to mean anything to Mark, but he says, "Oh hi. I'm Mark." He looks queerly at me then, and I realize that he thinks that Todd is a friend (or something more than a friend) of mine.

What _has _Bianca told him? Or not told him for that matter?

We move quickly on, and Mark continues on his way down the stairs.

"That was the friend," I tell Todd.

"Hurray," Todd replies, his voice full of sarcasm. But his expression is thoughtful. I imagine he's already sizing up the competition.

We finally make it to the living room where we find the sisters. The two of them both do a double take at the appearance of Todd behind me. Bianca especially. She whitens and freezes, one hand halfway to her mouth with a granola bar in it. Laurel looks suddenly delighted and squeals, "Oh my God. _You're _here. That is _toooo _perfect."

"Nice to see you to, Laurel," Todd says drolly. As far as I know, he and Laurel get along fine, although they've never been bosom buddies or anything. He must know that her overreaction has something to do with whatever is going on with Bianca, to whom he now directs his attention. Nodding his head towards her, he says, "Hey."

"Hey," she answers coolly, having now regained some of her composure. Enough to pretend she remembers he was coming. "You're early, huh?"

"A little," he says. And then she motions him out of the room and he follows her direction.

"Awkward," Laurel says, once they're safely gone. But to be honest, she looks nothing but pleased. Of course I can see why she's happy. She hoping the same thing that I'm hoping: that Bianca will reconcile with Todd and give up this nonsense with Mark. But while I'm hoping it for both Bianca and Todd's sake, Laurel is hoping only for her own. No altruism there. With Bianca out of the picture, nothing will stand between her and Mark Salvo. Laurel will be happier without the competition.

Mark soon enough rejoins Laurel and me in the living room. "So that guy's a friend of yours?" he asks me casually. Too casually. There's something about his tone that seems forced.

"No, he belongs to Bianca," Laurel says, either missing what I heard in Mark's voice or not assigning any significance to it. She's all too eager, anyway, to let it be known to Mark that Bianca is by some definitions _taken_.

Mark looks surprised. "Someone belongs to Bianca?" he asks, forgetting that he was at all interested in me and turning all of his attention over to Laurel. "Or rather," he amends, "Bianca belongs to someone?"

She nods, and smiles.

"Huh," Mark says, without much expression. With a shrug, he ambles back out of the room. Laurel smiles after him as he leaves. Then she notices me.

"Oh, don't look at me like that Cameron," she says. "Bianca loves Todd, and you know as well as I do that that's better for her. Besides," she adds, glance over where Mark just left, "I saw him first."

Then she also leaves the room. Left to myself, I fall into pondering Mark's tone when he thought I was dating Todd. Eventually, I conclude that with Laurel and Bianca filling up his time, Mark can't possibly be spending any of it thinking about me. I'm just obsessed and a little bit crazy, and so I'm transferring meaning to things that don't mean anything. Sure, I would want Mark to care if I was dating someone. But the fact of the matter is that he doesn't

He doesn't care at all.

- - - - - -

The day turns into another day at the beach, this time with all in attendance. We meet the Crofts as well, who are turning into something of a staple of our group. They are nice to have around. Today, the rest decide to play a game of volleyball. Terribly un-athletic myself, I don't join in. Judy Croft sits it out with me, as does Maggie.

I had hoped, reasoned, and expected that Bianca would come to her senses as soon as Todd arrived. But it isn't the case. Somehow she ends up on a team with both Todd and Mark, which makes for an interesting spectacle. She completely ignores Todd and lavishes all her energies on a slightly-confused-but-making-the-most-of-it Mark. Interesting as it may be to watching, it's also a little painful. Especially as one reasonably invested in their future.

But even Judy Croft seems to notice that something out of the ordinary is going on. "Who is that poor boy watching Bianca so sadly?" she asks Maggie and I.

"Her boyfriend," Maggie snorts. She's in a mood today, and can barely be prevailed upon to offer a smile. I suspect she and Jim had a fight last night. This is typical post-fight behavior for Maggie, compounded today by the prospect of divorce looming above her head.

Her reply adds more questions to Judy's mind than it answers. "Her boyfriend?" she parrots, turning to me for further clarification.

I wish I had more to offer her. "Possibly ex. Jury's still out, I believe."

Judy turns back to the volleyball scene. As in love with his book as she is, Judy probably thinks that Mark is the most valuable man ever to walk to the planet. But still, her heart goes out to the obviously dejected blonde. She sighs and repeats, "Poor boy."

And the truth his, Todd isn't taking any pains to be discreet about his reactions to things. Why should he? Everyone knows he's supposed to be with Bianca and everyone knows she's blowing him off. I suppose he's got enough right to be upset as he wants to be. Not that Todd is one to throw fits or temper tantrums. Instead, he's quietly observant and increasingly solemn.

After a moment, Judy rejoins, "You know, that Mark Salvo isn't at all what I would've expected him to be." Maggie snaps the gum she's chewing. Her eyes behind her sunglasses seem to be staring vacantly at the horizon. But I'm more than interested to hear what Judy has to say. She continues, "You'd thinking having his heart broken like he has, he'd be a little more careful with other people's. Don't get me wrong. I think he's a lovely person. But the boy needs to think a little more is all."

Her tone is one of motherly reproof, which fits her person so well. Being the motherless child that I am, I'm drawn to her. I find myself wanting to tell her the truth about things—about me and Mark. I've wanted to tell it to someone, wanted someone to share the burden of the secret with me. And Judy Croft seems comforting and safe.

But Maggie's presence checks my impulses. I love my sister, but she's sure to spread thing around.

After a bit, Maggie begins to complain of heat stroke. She calls to Jim, who calls a timeout and jogs over to us on the sidelines. Maggie tells him she wants to go home.

"Okay," Jim says dismissively. "See you later then."

Maggie's forehead creases. "You don't even want to offer to come with me?" she asks combatively, but Jim doesn't take the bait. He doesn't seem to notice any warning signals in her tone. I know that my brother-in-law can tend towards obliviousness, but this seems pretty bad even for him.

He just says, "Well, Camry's going, isn't she?"

"Of course Camry's going," I say. What I want now is to be out of this situation, which is pregnant to explode.

Jim looks at Maggie, as if to ask, _Well, what's the problem then?_

Maggie's expression or tone doesn't change. "Fine, see you at home," she says, and whirls into a standing position and begins stomping towards the cars.

Jim heads back to the volleyball court with nothing more than a shrug. And then Todd says, "You know, I think I'll go too." He doesn't attempt to make excuses for himself, but turns to Judy and asks, "You want to play, Judy, don't you?"

"Sure I want to play," says Judy good-naturedly. Possibly, she's an anxious as I am to alleviate an awkward situation.

Something passes across Bianca's face at the idea of Todd leaving. She knows she brought him to it, and she's fretfully biting her bottom lip. Bianca might be realizing that she's making a mistake, but perhaps she seems to herself too far down the road to turn back. Besides that, she may still be a little infatuated with Mark. She does not say anything to stop Todd.

So Maggie and Todd and I—the outcasts—go back the house together. Maggie immediately goes to her room to take a nap, and Todd and I are left to occupy our time.

Todd's reaction to the whole situation is much different than what I thought it would be. I expected a reaction more like Mark's reaction to me—bitter resentment. But Todd is surprisingly calm and contemplative. Not to say that he's not hurt or upset. He just seems to be handling things with more maturity than, well, Mark and me.

When we enter the house, he falls into the nearest chair to him and stares thoughtfully for a bit into space. Eventually he muses, "I know it's hard on her, the family not approving and all, and it's long distance a lot of the time." He pauses. "But I think she love me." It's all said matter-of-factly, like he's been logically weighing both sides. In another moment, he stands and also vacates the room, leaving me to myself.

Twenty minutes later he returns, duffle bag and guitar case in hand.

"What are you doing?" I ask, startled. I'm rooting for Todd after all, and this doesn't seem to bode well.

"Ultimately, it's her decision," he says, in that same forthright tone. "Tell Bianca we've got a gig in Atlanta next Tuesday. Hopefully I see her there."

And with that closing line, he goes.

- - - - - - -

The other four arrive home a few hours later. Bianca stalks around the house a bit and then she comes to find me in my room. "Where's Todd?" she asks, trying to hide the underlying anxiousness in the question.

"He left," I say.

She drops instantly onto my bed, defeated and horrified. "Shit," she groans. "Oh shit. Cameron, I think I made a mistake."

I say, "He wanted me to tell you he's got a gig in Atlanta next Thursday, and he hopes he'll see you there."

Bianca's expressions morphs into relief and she leans back against the wall. "I knew I was being stupid," she says, as if she feels like she has to explain her behavior to someone. And since I'm here, I'm the one to hear her explanation. "I just—I don't know. Mom and Dad are always telling me not to 'throw away my life' or whatever on someone who's chances of success are, you know, a gamble. And they'd like Mark. And I like to talk to him about books and stuff. I guess I just thought it'd be easier…" she trails off.

For a moment there's silence. I can hear a clock ticking in the back of my mind. I can barely keep myself from blurting out that I _did _choose to not throw my life away on someone whose chances of success were a gamble. And that I know from experience that it's the wrong choice.

Fortunately Bianca suddenly continues, before I commit myself to having said something I maybe shouldn't have. "Anyway, Mark's a sweetheart really, but not for me. I should call Todd." And with a quick, "Thanks Cameron," she's gone from my room, already pressing buttons on her phone.

I'm happy to have one crisis thus averted. But on the heels of one crisis comes another.

- - - - - - - -

Jim and Maggie have another fight after dinner, about nothing in particular. Generally, I'm beginning to understand how their fights go, and neither party is completely innocent. Jim tends to be inattentive, and Maggie tends to overreact. So it's on both of their heads. Although I have to say myself that Maggie seems a little overly sensitive these days, even for Maggie. What I mean is, she's touchier than usual.

Since it's my job to baby-sit the marriage, I take it upon myself to find out exactly what's going on with my sister. This evening, after her fight with Jim, Maggie stalks peevishly out to the porch by herself. Dutifully, I follow.

I find her pacing back and forth, shaking her hands as if to release bad energy. She turns around. Upon seeing that's it's me who's come out, she frowns a little. Probably she was hoping it was Jim. She keeps pacing as she says, "I told you. I told you he wants a divorce."

I'm still not convinced Jim wants a divorce, but I'm not convinced he doesn't either. The conclusion I've come to in the past couple days is that I don't know anything about anything. I thought I'd never see Mark again in my lifetime and look where that got me. So I don't know what to tell Maggie. I start saying something like, "Maggie, maybe if you just talk to him—"

Maggie whirls around and comes to a standstill, facing me head on. "Camry," she says, her voice low and more serious than I think I've ever heard it. "I'm pregnant."

I can barely keep my voice at a low decibel. "What?!" I hiss. "You think Jim wants to divorce you because you're—"

Maggie cuts in. "I haven't told Jim."

"You haven't _told _Jim?" I repeat. The situation has blown me away. I'm not capable of anything more intelligent than repeating what she says.

Maggie raises her chin in defiance. "Well, he won't divorce me if he knows I'm pregnant. I don't want him to stay with me just because of the baby."

I can decide if she's being completely irrational or completely logical. I can almost see where she coming from, but then again, I can't at all. And it doesn't seem to matter either way. There is only one thing for her to do, and it's the one thing that she's refusing _to_ do.

"Maggie, you _have _to tell Jim," I say, somewhere between commanding and pleading. But Maggie's chin is still tilted upward with pride and determination.

And I know, I just know, that I'm going to have to do something to fix this myself.

----

**A/N: For those of you just **_**waiting **_**for Mark to figure out Cameron's read his book, don't worry! It will come. I'm going to have to suffer you to be patient though—I'm saving it for after Mark & Cameron start getting along a little bit better. But never fear; I've got it all planed out. **

**Props to AliKitKat for giving me the fantastic idea of have Judy Croft sort of supplant Elise as Cameron's mother figure. I owe you one. **

**And thank you all for your wonderful reviews. They are the most encouraging thing in the world. Please keep reviewing! **

**I should have another "half" chapter up in the next few days from Mark's perspective again, so be on the lookout for that. I know you're all prolly wanting more Mark after this basically Mark-less chapter (apologies..)**

**I'm also thinking about starting another **_**Emma **_**fic…. It's my personal favorite JA book and I just can't get it out of my head. What do you all think? I'm most definitely going to keep on with this story whether I start another fic or not, and I would intend the new **_**Emma**_** to be very different from **_**My Own Mr Knightley.**_

**beletrix: **I _did _see _Becoming Jane_. I found it… phenomenally depressing. The conclusion it seemed to be drawing was that life is already unhappy enough, and therefore fiction shouldn't be. The friend I saw it with didn't like it because she thought all the sexual-innuendo-y dialogue was un-Jane-Austen-like. That didn't really bother me. I think I liked it alright it just made me… really depressed. But Anne Hathaway was very pretty. I dunno, what did you think?


	8. Mark Interupts Again

**Nobody Screw Up a Second Shot**

**-**

**5.5. Mark Interrupts Again**

A knock on my door. I'm knee-deep into writing a descriptive paragraph, and it takes me a moment to pull myself out of the writing and back into the real world. By that time, a second knock. I turn in my chair, expecting to find Laurel or perhaps Bianca. What I find instead knocks the air out of me for a moment. Cameron is in my doorway.

Not knowing what to say (or why she's here, for that matter), I simply stare. Cameron starts us off. "I need to ask a favor," she says.

What? What could she possible want from me that's brought her here now? We haven't had a real conversation since the airport. I could almost admire her courage, but I've had too much past experience with her cowardice.

"A favor?" I ask, arching my eyebrows satirically. I'm determined to be master of the situation.

But right away I wish I could recant my uninviting tone. I can see Cameron closing up. She's pursing her lips and narrowing her eyes—wondering if it's even worth her while to try me. I desperately want to know what she wants. And so I try to make amends for my brutishness. "I'll help if I can," I say breezily, still trying to mask my interest for the sake of pride. It's a half-ass attempt, and it's not quite enough.

Cameron nods, but appears to still be mulling over the pros and cons of asking her favor of me. Her eyes dart distractedly around the room, and she begins chewing on her lower lip. Then I start thinking something is wrong. I mean, really wrong. Something must be colossally wrong, or else she wouldn't have come to me.

And pride suddenly shrinks in regard to my concern for her. "Camry—" I say, my voice betraying more anxiety than I would like her to see.

But it breaks down her wall. "Maggie's pregnant and she won't tell Jim because she thinks he wants a divorce and she doesn't want him to stay with her just because of the baby," she blurts, in one long breath.

I blink, trying to digest. On one hand, I'm relieved there's not something seriously wrong with Cameron (who I apparently still care about despite myself). On the other hand, this _is_ colossal.

"Shit," I finally say, unable to come up with a more articulate or useful response. "That's so…"

"_Age of Innocence_, I know," Cameron finishes, still able after all of these years to finish my thoughts. She is also, I realize, in about the .2 of the population who would think of that literary allusion.

Then a question enters my mind. "What exactly is it that you want me to _do_?"

In one swift movement, she enters my room and sits down on the corner of my bed. The distance between us, I feel, has finally been breeched. I'm uncomfortable with that. "Tell me what to do," she says, clearly distraught. "Somebody's got to tell me what to do. You're the only person I could think of to talk to. I mean, does Jim want a divorce? Has he said anything?"

"No. I don't think." Then considering, I add, "I mean, I don't think he wants a divorce. He's not the kind for arbitrary discontent. And he likes his wife, I think."

"Okay," she says, nodding. "Okay." This is probably a conclusion she's drawn on her own, but it seems to reassure her to hear it from someone else.

I can't restrain myself. Laurel said something the other day that got me wondering, and I have to take advantage of this situation to satisfy my curiosity. "You know I've heard…" I trail off. Cameron's eyes dart apprehensively to me. Assured of her full attention, I continue. "I've heard Jim went for you first. You turned him down and he married your younger sister."

Her stern silence is confirmation enough.

"That's so—" I begin.

"_Little Women_, I know."

There's something about the tone of her words that throws me off my guard, and suddenly I'm talking to her like we used to talk. "If you _could _pick an author to write your life, who would you pick?" I ask musingly.

"Jane Austen," she says with deliberation.

I smile. "Good answer."

"Jim needs to talk to Maggie. I guess that means I need to talk to Jim," she says, reverting back to the reason she's here in the first place. She stands and smoothes the front of her pants with her hands. "Thanks Marks," she says genuinely, and smiles.

I don't know what just happened. I'd determined to hate this girl forever. "Yeah," I say. It's possible she catches the bewilderment in my voice. "Yeah. Okay. You're welcome."

And so it begins again.


	9. Spectator

Nobody Screws Up a Second Shot

**Nobody Screws Up a Second Shot**

**-**

**6. Spectator **

The very next day Bianca is on her laptop, checking out airplane tickets online. Laurel, entering the room, walks over and leans on the back of the couch behind her. "What are you doing?" she asks, peering over Bianca's shoulder.

"Todd has a show," Bianca says, without looking away from her computer. And then she glances across the room at me before adding offhandedly, "Cameron's coming with me." This is news to me. Not that I mind. But I am wondering when exactly I became this whole family's moral support. As if _I'm _the most stable person around here.

Laurel is thrilled to here this. What it means to her is that Bianca has bowed out as her rival. And with that, the sisters can be friends again. "I want to go," Laurel says almost eagerly. She crosses around the couch and sitting down beside Bianca too look at ticket prices with her. "I haven't heard Todd play the longest time."

"I haven't heard Todd play ever," Mark interposes, from where he has been pretending to be busy reading the paper. But obviously he's been paying attention. This is one of those nerve-racking things about Mark. He's always paying attention, even when you think he's not.

"We should _all_ go!" Laurel says. She's genuinely getting excited by the propect, but she adds for Bianca's sake, "Unless you don't want an entourage."

Bianca shrugs. "I don't care." She's acting nonchalant, but I'd guess that she's pleased about her sister's enthusiastic support. It's heartwarming to see the two on the same side again.

And anyway, that's what happens: we all go to Atlanta to see Todd. We all go by plane, to be precise, which seems a little extravagant to me. But then sometimes I forget that this family hasn't lost all its money. It's mine that has.

The flight from Florida to Atlanta is somewhere between one hour and two, and right before we board the plane I suddenly have a brain wave. I haven't talked to Jim yet. It's been hard to find an opportunity, with the full house we have. And the need to talk to Jim weighs on me more every second longer that it's left undone. And I think, what a perfect opportunity. An hour-long flight.

The flight attendant calls our rows to board. Without allowing myself time enough to over-think and change my mind, I seize my purse and beeline for Mark. I follow him closely through the queue until there's a moment when no one's quite paying attention to either of us, as we're walking down the passage to the plane. I grab his arm, close to his elbow.

Mark turns to me, with a look in between surprise and consternation. I say in a low voice, "I want to sit by Jim.

He comprehends me. "Done," he says simply, and strides ahead to the rest of the group.

Then Mark proceeds to take care of things for me. On the plane, our tickets are in three rows of two, one right after the other. Maggie—pregnant, exhausted, frustrated Maggie—drops into the window seat of our first row, and Mark, with very little ceremony, pushes his way through and sits down beside her.

"I'm sitting with Maggie," he says cheerfully, to everyone's confusion.

Maggie, slouched in her chair, doesn't appear to care _who_ sits with her. She's is scowling unswervingly at the seat in front of her. And I think: this isn't going to be a nice flight for Mark. Perhaps I'm asking more of him than I ought. It's Laurel who asks the obvious question: "Why?"

"Because I've barely gotten to talk to Maggie, and I'm pretty sure Maggie has all the good dirt on everyone," Mark says matter-of-factly, an answer which is plausible enough and everyone is obliged to accept. So Laurel claims the row behind Mark and Maggie—in order to overhear any dirt that may be relayed about her—and pulls Bianca in beside her.

That leaves me two rows away from Maggie, sitting next to Jim. Honestly, there couldn't be a situation more perfect. I am overwhelmingly indebted to Mark.

"That Mark, he's a strange one," Jim muses as we take our seats.

I shrug and say, "No more than the rest of us," which Jim admits to be true. We're both relatively silent through take off and the safety demonstration. The whole time, I'm trying to decide how best to broach the subject of Maggie. Directness, I decide, is the best method.

So I say, "Tell me honestly, Jim. Do you want to divorce my sister?"

Jim takes it as he's prone to takes things—as a joke. "Now I know I'm irresistible, Camry, but you did have your chance." He actually even chuckles to himself, before he turns to look at me and finds that there's no joke in my own expression. His face falls instantly out of its smile.

"You're not serious," he says.

But I am serious, and I don't have to say so for Jim to know it. He picks up his drinking cup and turns it around in his hands, as if examining it closely. He turns back to me. "Why are you asking me this, Cameron?" he says calmly. For Jim, the complete seriousness is unusual and almost startling.

"Maggie thinks you do," I say.

"What?!" Jim is jarred out of his apprehension by his surprise. It's typical that he's completely oblivious to what's going on in his own life. "But why?" he asks. "Why would she think that? I mean, I know things—" Here he stops, interrupting his first thought with second. "Does _she _want a divorce?"

"No. She just thinks you do."

Jim nods slowly. "Good," he says, visibly relieved. "Good. But still. Why?"

I'm without a very good answer. The pregnancy, I figure, is for Maggie to tell him about. "Well…" I begin. "She is Maggie."

Jim leans back in his chair and closes his eyes, rubbing his forehead with one hand. For a moment, we are both silent. Then I rejoin, "You are a little inattentive."

"Okay," Jim says, taking the criticism.

"You need to talk to her. Soon."

"Okay," Jim repeats. He opens his eyes and thanks me, and he gets up and walks away. I don't know what he's doing, until a moment later I'm joined by Mark. No time like the present, I guess.

"I take it that went well," Mark says, settling into the seat beside me. He leans back and turns just his head to look at me, with a bit of a smile turning up the corners of his mouth. "You've been asking a lot of favors of me," he says, with some irony.

I've gotten used to Mark's presence, but not yet to talking to him. My reflex is to apologize, and so I tell him I'm sorry.

Mark's reaction surprises me: he laughs. Laughs. "I wasn't asking you to apologize, Camry," he says. And I realize that there's no animosity in his tone. None at all. We may have gotten past something.

"Okay," I say, trying to readjust to the new dynamics. "I'm not sorry then. But thank you."

He nods. The mood seems too serious for a moment, probably because Mark has temporarily lost his buoyancy. But then he shakes his head as if to shake something off. And he starts off with a new topic of conversation. And Mark and I have an honest-to-goodness, friendly, substantial conversation. Really, it's a historic moment.

"So," he says. "What's your plan? I mean, what's Cameron Harper going to do with her life?"

I groan. "I _hate_ that question." Although today, that question is distracting me from overanalyzing whatever's going on between Mark and me, which is probably a good thing. "If I knew, would I be here?"

"Point taken," Mark admits. "Well I suppose in your case, you always have your family to fall back on. Should that English major not pan out."

I know very well what Mark thinks of my family. It appears that even in civilized conversation, he can't just let that one slide. But I ignore the dig and offer offhandedly, "Oh, we're poor now."

Mark is lifting his water bottle up to his mouth and has to catch himself so as not to spew his water. "Sorry, you're what now?" he asks, after gaining control of himself."

"Poor."

He shakes his head, biting his bottom lip to restrain a smirk that he's not quite keeping aback. "I hate to say it," he says, although I'm pretty sure he doesn't hate to say it at all. "But I'm happy to hear that."

I shrug. "Sure. Poetic justice I suppose. It's like—"

"_The House of Mirth_," Mark finishes for me. There's something significant in the way we can still do this—finish each other's thoughts. Right? There has to be something significant.

Mark interrupts my thoughts. "Cameron," he says, leaning forward in his chair. Suddenly there's an eagerness to him. It's that boyish excitement that always bursts out of him when he thinks he's having a very good idea. "Do you know what you'd be good at? Have you ever though about editing?"

I have thought about it. I've thought I'd be good at it too. But as usual, I fall into my general lack of self-confidence. "Well, I have. But I don't' know. It's so hard to get into, and—"

"Not if you know the right people," Mark interrupts, not rudely but with all of his boisterous enthusiasm. I'm a little surprised that he's taking such an interest in my future. It doesn't make much sense.

"I suppose you're the right people," I say, a tad apprehensive."

"Well actually," he says, completely caught up now in his plan. "David—my editor—he's looking to hire a new assistant editor. Oh, this is perfect."

Not to rain on his parade, and not that the opportunity doesn't sound amazing, but somebody has to be the realist. And as usual, that falls to me. "I'm completely unqualified, besides which—"

Here Mark waves me off. "Oh bother that. You'd be brilliant and you know it. You send him your resume. I'll tell Dave I've got someone he has to interview. It'll work out, you'll see. You want to do it, don't you?"

There's nothing I'd like to do more. I know it, and somehow Mark knows it too. So there's only one answer to his question. "Yes," I say, out of arguments. After all, what is life if not for trying?

"Good. It's settled." Satisfied, Mark leans comfortably back in his chair and folds his hands across his lap. After some minutes he says, "I can't _believe _you didn't read my book." Another thing he can't let go.

Though his tone is almost joking, not serious or angry anymore, the lie is becoming to heavy for me. And yet, I feel I've come too far to recant. But I don't want to hurt him anymore. "Mark," I begin, unsure where I'm going next, but wanting to offer something consolatory.

He holds up a hand to stop me, and I stop. "Bygones, Cameron" he says. "Bygones."

- - - -

In Atlanta, I'm thrust into a world of shiny, happy couples. It's a world in which I have no place and in which I'm reduced to a spectator. I spend my time watching everyone else have what I don't: a place to belong, and someone to belong to.

Bygones or not, as soon as the plane lands and Mark gets back on his feet he abandons me and drifts back to Laurel. And they begin to flirt prodigiously—flirting that lasts the whole trip long. I try not to be disappointed. I don't know what I'm hoping for anyway.

Jim and Maggie also emerge from the plane hand and hand, all better for the moment. Upon noticing this, Mark does find a moment to raise an eyebrow to me—either impressed by or suspicious of their speedy progress. But that's all I get from him. Everything else is all for Laurel.

Bianca is the last to be united with her other half. Through the airport, she hangs back with me. She seems nervous, which I can understand considering how things went the last time she saw Todd. But as soon as he meets us outside of the airport, her apprehension vanishes. They reunite sweetly and casually. Really, they are a marvel. They're lack of melodrama and their easy forgive-and-forget are things relationships don't often see. Or at least not my relationships.

It's a nice trip for everyone else. Todd's show is nice. The weather is nice. The company is nice. But for me, it's almost unbearable. Especially when I'm forced to watch Laurel running a hand through Mark's hair.

When the time comes for our flight back to Florida, I'm happy to be going.

- - - - -

On the flight back, we return to a normal seating arrangement—Maggie and Jim, Laurel and Mark, Bianca and me behind them. Bianca falls asleep within the first ten minutes. I lean back my chair and close my eyes, prepared for a long, uneventful journey. But then I realize it: above the low drone of white noise around me, I can hear Mark and Laurel's conversation. Quite distinctly.

"What was that all about anyway?" Laurel is asking him.

It's not that I mean to eavesdrop, but I just can't help it. It's physically impossible for me not to hear them

"I wanted to sit by Maggie," Mark says nonchalantly, as if he doesn't understand her questioning his motives. I'm relieved that he's keeping my confidence to himself—and not _just_ telling Laurel, who would _just _tell Bianca, and soon enough everyone would know my sister's business. But somehow, I already knew I could trust him.

"Yeah, but you didn't _sit _by Maggie You switched with Jim and went back with Cameron," Laurel petulantly persists.

Mark sidesteps the question. "What, are you jealous?" he asks, and I can picture the playful smirk he must be wearing.

"Ha. Of Cameron?"

Mark says in a more musing tone, "Well you probably should be."

My heart catches. I can't tell. Is he being serious at all, or is this only more of the joke? I just can't tell. And I shouldn't be listening. It's making me think too many things. I consider calling the flight attendant and asking for a pair of headphones.

But Mark says, "So what's this about Jim? He really wanted to marry Cameron first?" And I know headphones are out of the question.

"Hold on there. Nobody said anything about marriage. He wanted to date her, sure. And to be honest, I kind of was rooting for Cameron. I mean, Maggie is _such _a spaz," Laurel pauses, and then adds more suspiciously, "Hold on, why do you care anyway?"

"I don't. It's just—well, have you ever read _Little Women_?"

"God. Like the book?" Laurel snorts.

"Okay," I can hear some kind of constraint in Jim's tone, like he's deliberately trying to let that one slide. "Well, why did he turn him down?"

"Cameron? Who knows. I mean, she was like Lady Macbeth or whatever back then. Like, you think she's depressing no? She was ten times worse. I heard she was engaged once. I kind of have a theory about how that's why the way she was. You know, the jilted lover. He probably didn't show up to the wedding."

I can't imagine what Mark's thinking about that theory. Thankfully, I don't get to hear, because Laurel interrupts her self to complain, "Why are we talking about Cameron so much anyway?"

Mark pacifies her suspicions by saying, "It's just all so scandalous. I think it would make a good book plot, you know?"

"Whatever," Laurel says dismissively. She _so _tired of talking about me, and to ensure the conversation takes a different route she says, "So you know the deal with Todd and Bianca? Our parents _hate _him, mostly just because he's a starving artist and all of that. They think Bianca's going to support him all her life."

"Hmm," Marks mumbles. And then, contemplatively: "Good for her, for sticking with him."

"Well, I've had to talk her through it a few times. She has rough patches, but I tell if she love him, it shouldn't matter what other people think," Laurel says. I've no idea whether this is true or not. What I do know (and what Laurel seems to know, which is probably why she's telling Mark this) is that it'll make a good impression on Mark.

"You're a top-notch girl, Laurel," he says, a smile in his tone.

I flag down a flight attendant and ask her for headphones.

--

**A/N: Hello one and all! Sorry for the slight delay in updates, but there's a chapter for you. For all of you who love Mark's perspective, I do intend to have regular interludes from him. AND (drum roll please) to all of those who have been WAITING for Mark to find out that Cameron's read his book… I'll just tell you: next chapter is the chapter you've been waiting for. So, what you need to do is… review!! And I will write you a lovely chapter all about Mark find out that Cameron's read his book.**

**Hey, if anyone's got some spare time on their hands, check out my brand new Emma fic: Stage Effect. It needs some reviewers.**

**--**

**Jill: **I still can't believe you stopped reading my story _just _because Ranny weren't going to have THE SEX. That is so vindictive! Kind of wonderfully vindictive, but vindictive none the less. Harsh, harsh! But perhaps you were robbed of your just rewards, seeing as a great portion of that stories plot/progression and so forth was dependent upon your faithful & insightful suggestions, demands, etc. Am I trying to appeal to your narcissism here? Of course I am! Anything to get my favorite reviewer back. I mean, come on. You missed a whole year of my life. I had to become co-dependent with a boy, which, yeah, was just dramatic. But that's not the point. The point is, I'm sorry Ranny didn't have THE SEX. Its wasn't really a majority opinion thing, so much as it was that I personally just have a really hard time justify a Johnny-Rachel hookup. I mean, come on! You know how I feel about brotherly love & guy bonding and all of that. I just kept thinking: But Johnny hooking up with Rachel, isn't that a betrayal of Adrien? But listen, I set my ethical dilemmas aside and WROTE you a post-epilogue, epilogue, in which Johnny & Rachel do have the SEX (or at least you know they're going to), which you may or may have gotten, depending on whether or not you have the same email. So anyway, in closing: To err is human, to forgive is Devine. So in other words, forgive. Because nobody else writes me such ass-kicking things as "I'm actually starting to think you did Melodramatic Mark a favor by Judas Kissing your relationship goodbye" My fics desperately need your love.


	10. Dangerous Games

**Nobody Screw Up a Second Shot**

**-**

**7. Dangerous Games**

Two days after the Atlanta trip, Jim and Maggie announce it over dinner: they are having a baby. When Mark raises his glass with the rest of us to the occasion, he catches my eye. It's almost as if he's toasting to me.

The occasion also calls for a call home to Dad and Heather, which Maggie makes me do with her over speaker phone. Dad and Heather use speaker phone too, on their end of the line. Which is good—we can talk to them both at once, saving ourselves half the time and half the suffering. Tina Frisk is with them when we call, much to my revulsion.

Dad is dreadfully apathetic about becoming a grandfather. Heather is downright hostile. "God. Just promise me you'll lose your pregnancy weight back again afterwards. It's so disgusting when people don't," she says.

But even Maggie's smart enough to know not to let the evil side of our family get her down.

I call Elise myself, since Maggie's always been a little scared of her. Also, I owe Elise a call—a call I've been avoiding to make. I'm not sure how to broach the subject of Mark. She'll be horrified to learn I've been spending the summer with him, and I don't want to have her on my back about it. The situation is stressful enough already. So I think perhaps that it's best to not tell her anything. But I'm sure somehow she'll find out, even if I don't tell her myself. Elise finds out everything. And then she'll be doubly suspicious because I kept it from her.

I call her, anyway, to tell her about Maggie. Elise is charming about the news. She acts excited (even if she _is_ really apathetic) and offers her congratulations. Then she starts asking about me. How have I been? Have I decided yet what I'm going to do with my life? Have I called Eliot Camden?

I tell her about sending my resume to Mark's editor, although I add that I don't expect that much will come of it. She's pleased anyway to see me taking some initiative career-wise.

"And how has it been going down there with your sister?" she asks.

This is my opportunity to mention Mark. Impetuously, I decide to take the plunge. There are already too many lies. I can't keep telling more. "It's fine. Very relaxed, uneventful. You know, just Laurel, Bianca, Maggie, Jim. And Jim brought a friend," I say.

"That's so nice, dear. You really ought to find time, to make it down to Orlando. Elliot, you know, is _dying _to meet you. I'm sure he's still down there. In fact, I'm sure he'd come to you if you gave him a call."

I interrupt. I can't hold it in any longer. "Mark is Jim's friend. Mark Salvo. I'm spending my vacation with Mark Salvo."

There a long silence on Elise's end of the line. Then she says tightly, "And how is that, dear?" I can hear the deliberate constraint in her voice.

"Fine," I say, attempting to sound casual about it. "It's fine. It was awkward at first, but now it's fine. We don't really talk to each other. He's sort of hanging out with Laurel, actually. And it's a big house. I see a lot of the neighbors. Judy Croft, that is, she's the landlord's wife, actually."

I stop, realizing that I've begun to spout off completely irrelevant information. I tag on to the end of my ramblings, "So I don't see much of Mark, I'm saying."

"Of course," Elise says. But her tone is insincere. I can tell she's going to be checking up on me now, on a regular schedule. Maybe I should've kept Mark to myself.

I want to get off the phone now, so I tell Elise that I have to go. She says alright, she'll hopes she'll talk to me soon, and closes with this: "You just be careful, dear. Mark Salvo wasn't a good idea the first time, remember."

I almost say, "Yeah, but this time he's rich. Doesn't that make a difference?"

But I'm a good girl, and I don't talk back to my elders.

- - - - -

Mark's editor calls me. We set up an interview. I book a flight to New York for a day three weeks away.

- - - - -

The days roll on.

One afternoon Bianca and Laurel decide to go shopping. They kindly invite me along, but I decline. Maggie and Jim have already taken themselves out for the day, and it means I'll have the house to myself, in all practical terms. Mark has been holed up in his room for the past day and a half writing, and I suspect I won't see much of him.

But about an hour after the girls leave, Mark quietly emerges. I'm in the living room, curled up in front of the television watching a rerun of _Cheers_. Mark emerges so quietly that I don't notice him in the room until he says, "Hey."

I start at the sound of his voice, and then turn to find him standing behind me with his hands shoved into his pockets. His posture and expression suggest uncertainty—probably as to whether he wants to join me or not. I cordially return his monosyllabic greeting, and try to look inviting. He stands irresolute for another minute, looking mostly at the TV. Then, still watching avoiding eye contact, he shuffles around and takes a chair far enough away from me to imply distance.

We watch in silence until Mark abruptly diverts his attention to me. "Dave told me he got your resume," he says.

I can't help a satiric smile. "I'm sure he wasn't impressed."

"Well…" Mark scratches the back of his neck, almost nervously. "He said he set up an interview."

I nod. "He did. Thanks."

We've reached a strange stalemate, Mark and I. With the Maggie-Jim crisis averted, we've lost the reason we've had to be intimate and in league with each other. We can't seem to find our way back to the way we were on the plane. We're stuck at awkward.

He nods to the TV screen. "So you still watch this stuff?" he asks, because I was a _Cheers _fan back then too, when we were together.

I shrug. "When I happen to come across it."

He nods again and there's another onset of silence. He watches the television. I try not to watch him, but can't really help myself. He appears to be contemplative, and I don't think it has anything to do with what he's watching. All of the sudden, he frowns. And then he turns on me. "Do you know what's weird?" he asks.

What's weird is how his tone is suddenly so emphatic, how he turns his whole body around to face me fully, and looks at me now so intently. He continues without waiting for a reply. "I don't know anything about you," he says. "I mean, I almost _married _you, and now—well, who _are _you? I mean," he gestures widely at the TV, "like, what _is _your favorite TV show these days?"

I don't know if this is just a metaphoric outpouring, or if he really wants me to answer his question. Before I've worked this out for myself, he says, "Wait, don't tell me. Let me guess." I'm happy to sit back wait for his guess. It gives me a little more time to figure what this all about.

After a minute of consideration, he says, "_The Office_." With finality. As if he is sure he's right.

I've decided to play along with this game of his, whatever it means and where ever it may be leading me. "Actually, _Lost_. But I do like _The Office_."

He's wrinkled his nose at _Lost_. "_Lost_?" he says. "That's so… science fiction nerdy. I mean, aren't all _Lost _fans crazy bloging conspiracy theorist?"

I roll my eyes. "No. Anyway, there was this guy in my Economics class who got me into it."

I've already planned to say this, throwing _this guy_ out there in an offhand yet suggestive manner. You know, _this guy_. _This guy_ I might have dated. Because _I_ certainly didn't spend my last three years of college moping around about Mark Salvo. Nope, not me. There was _this guy _and we watched _Lost_.

But to be honest, the only reason _this guy _got me into the show was because he used to watch on his laptop, in class, right beside me, and on occasion he's lend me an earbud.

Anyway, Mark doesn't take the bait. He's just still trying to reconcile _Lost _with he's preconceived ideas about me. "Huh," he says finally. "Okay, give me another one."

"What?" I asked. "Another what?"

"Another something to guess," he says, like this is obvious. "I can do better than that. Like, ask me what you thought about Brittany Spears shaving her head." He holds a hand out towards me as if to stop me from jumping in here, and says quickly, "It made you sad, didn't it? Not all condescending and amused like most of the world. Because after all, she's just a person like the rest of us. A lost soul, right? That's what you thought."

"You make me sound like _Lifetime Television for Women_," I grumble, although this is pretty close to what I thought. I get what Mark is trying to do here. He's trying to prove to me, or himself, or whatever higher power there is in the universe that he knows me, he still knows me, after all these years. I'm not so sure anymore that this is a good place for us to go. It seems dangerous, possibly explosive.

But he's waiting so expectantly for me to "give him another one," and I really can't resist. So after eyeing him suspiciously for a moment or two, I give in.

"_Spiderman 3_," I say.

He thinks, briefly. "Not enough Peter-Harry love."

"I know!" I exclaim. "I mean, after three movies of build up, I expected a much more melodramatic and emotionally satisfying story line there. Where was the love? Where was the male bonding?"

"Too easy," Mark smirks. He's smug.

"James Frey faking his memoir," I say.

He purses his lips. "Well…" he says. "Personally, I was offended. But you…" H narrows his eyes, looking at me for some sort of clue. I put on my poker face. "You cut him some slack, because the _story _was just as effective, whether or not he made some of it up."

Mark_ does _know me. It's amazing. I want to stump him. At the same time, I'm thrilled. I don't relate to anyone like this. I've never related to anyone like this but Mark.

"Global warming," I say.

He thinks longer on this one the other two, until he finally bursts into a grin. "You bought a hybrid, didn't you?"

"No," I say petulantly. Because I know Mark's the type to dismiss the environmentalist trend as just another fad, and he's gently poking fun at my falling for it. Then I admit a bit sheepishly, "But I did hang up a close line. And change all my light-bulbs to those energy-saving one."

He laughs and shakes his head, and we've broken through again. We're on the other side of the stalemate. We're friends. "Say," he says, "what books are you liking these days? Top ten books in the past five years."

I'm about to begin counting off on my fingers, when he interrupts with enthusiasm, "Even better! Where's your stash?"

Because of course Mark knows all about comfort books. I stand up, and am about to cheerfully lead him to my stash. Then I remember what book is part of it: _Judas Kiss_, the book I'm not supposed to have read. Highlighted, dog-eared, practically annotated in my rather distinctive handwriting. He can't find out now that I've read his book. We've reached the other side. We're friends. Who knows what that would do to things.

I sit back down. "Let's not. I'll tell you my favorites," I say, a little bit desperately.

But Mark is already up and heading towards my room, gleeful and boyish again. "Come on Cameron, don't hold out of me," he says. What can I do to stop him? Nothing. There's nothing I can do. I'm obliged to follow him to my room, every step of mine filled with dread. I feel like I'm walking toward my death.

Mark's oblivious to my sudden change of attitude, excited as he to see my stash. He knows I'd bring my favorite books with me on a trip like this, and he just gets so excited to about books in general. He likes to know what people are reading. Especially me, I think. We always had similar tastes.

In my room, he quickly locates the carry on and sits down on the floor beside it. I sink despairingly onto the bed, head pounding in my ears. He's pulling out _A Room with a View_ and making some remark about how I'm still reading Forster. I can't really pay attention to what he's saying. I'm thinking there still might be a chance I'll be able to distract him before he gets to the bottom of that bag, where _Judas Kiss _is hidden.

He pulls out the next book, _The Kite Runner_. He looks pleased. "I _knew _you'd like this book. When I read it, I was like, 'Cameron has to read this.' The whole pseudo-brothers thing. Exactly what you're into." It does enter my mind that what he's implying here.He's been thinking about me these past five years, or at least he thought about me this one time. In any other situation, I'd be overjoyed. Right now, all I can be is apprehensive.

A few more books pulled out from the sack, with Mark commenting on each one. When he gets to _The Rule of Four,_ I know he's getting to the end of things. In fact, I'm half sure that the next book he's going to pull out is his own. The dread sinks in. They'll be no stopping it.

But Mark pauses on _The Rule of Four_, opening it and flipping through. "So this is good?" he asks, looking up at me.

"Yeah," I say, sensing an opportunity. "Pseudo-brothers."

Mark laughs, turning over the back cover and glances over the praise blurbs. "I have to be honest. I skipped this one. It was too soon after _The DiVinci Code _for me. I was afraid it was going to be another overrated, banally written…" he trails off. "But you say it's good, huh? Okay. I am borrowing this."

"Borrow away," I say. He set the book deliberately down on his lap. I know I have to jump in here and say something—anything—to stop him. "Hey, what do you say we—" I begin, my last frantic attempt.

But he's already reaching into the bag. He's chatting amicably as he does so. "You know, it's funny the books you have here, because a lot of them were my—" And he stops short, as he comprehends exactly what book is in his hands now. _Judas Kiss, _by Mark Slavo. His face morphs into an expression of shock, wide-eyed and incredulous. He looks at me, disbelieving. Then he returns to the book, flipping through a little, taking note of my underlining, my notes, my dog-eared pages.

I want to fall, fall, fall. Off the bed and through the floor and out of this situation. I can't think of anything good to say. I'm too mortified. But soon enough I put out of my misery, as Mark stands up and briskly leaves the room, taking my copy of his book with him. Just leaves. Without a word.

Moments later, I hear his own door slam closed.

When the girls get home, Laurel asks me if Mark still holed away in his room.

I say, "I haven't seen him all day."

-

**A/N: How's that for a quick update? Don't get too used to it – I was on midterm break :o). But really, I just knew y'all were waiting for this one, and I felt it was cruel to keep you in suspense. So did you like?! Review, review!! You know you must.**

**AmyI: **That's so funny. I never knew Jane Austen said Emma was a heroine only she could like. To be honest, Emma's my favorite. She's so awesomely full of herself. And don't worry – Mark will have competition very soon (I agree that he needs it). I'm moving them to Orlando soon, and towards the infamous Eliot Camden.

**bellatrix731: **Yep, I'm an English major. Lol. Actually, I'm just kind of a nerd. And I just tend to remember book plots pretty well. Glad Cameron's name grew on you :o) Oh, and I'm glad you're reading my Emma story too! I'm excited about that one.

**check6: **Yeah, we'll get there… eventually. I plan for Mark and Cameron to have a really big fight eventually where all their issues about their past relationship come out. Right now, they're kind of avoiding that subject…

**j:**. I do intend to bring Todd back into the story in the next couple chapters, and he will have some actually "screen time" (so to speak) with Bianca. I really like them too, glad you do.

**AliKitKat: **Oh no! Everyone's starting to hate Laurel and I wasn't really _trying _to make people hate her. Lol, she is kind of manipulative, I guess… I thought about having the book Mark's working on now be another Cameron-inspired book, but I haven't decided yet.'

**be-u: **Nope, the trip is coming up probably next chapter, along with the James Benwick chapter and then later on Eliot Camden (who is Mr. Eliot). So get ready for the drama to really start! Yeah, I intended for Mark to be comparing Laurel (even if subconsciously for him) with Cameron with the _Little Women _bit, or at least for him to seem disappointed that she hasn't read it because its—gasp—a book. He knows they're incompatible, he's just not admitting it.

**And thank you so much to everyone else who reviewed! Keep reviewing. I'll keep writing. Cheers!**


	11. Letting Go

**Nobody Screws up a Second Shot**

**- **

**8. Letting Go**

"You have to help me out, Camry," Jim says to me one afternoon. "I'm completely out of my depth."

It's a quiet day. Actually, the days have become routinely quiet for most of us. Bianca is on the phone a lot talking, we all know, to Todd. Mark has spent most of his time in his room. "Reading his own damn book," as Laurel says. Laurel herself has begun to complain that he whole beach thing is getting old. Really, she's just frustrated with Mark.

I'm not worried about Mark myself. He hasn't spoken to me since he found my copy of his book. But I'm not worried about him. I'm not even worried that he's apparently spending his days studying my notes, my underlined paragraphs, my dog-eared pages. I've become concerned that I'm starting to become a one-dimensional person. It's ridiculous of me to spend all of my time fretting over Mark. There are other things to be fretted over.

Take this, for instance: Jim's days have not been as quiet as the rest of ours. Maggie, yes, is finally fully satisfied that her husband does not want a divorce. But the drama has not stopped with that. It _never _stops, when you're dealing with Maggie. She's simply found a new crisis to replace the old one. She's convinced herself that she should not be pregnant, because she will make a terrible mother. Jim has not heard the end of it.

So Jim says to me, "You've got to help me out, Camry," and looks at me so imploringly that I cannot refuse him. Still, I can't help wondering if Jim's heard of third-party marriages. I mean, does my involvement not seem a little out of proportion here to what is good and normal?

"I should be a therapist," I tell Judy Croft that same afternoon. "Seriously, I should've majored in psychology."

Judy has rescued me from the house of stupor and taken me to lunch. She's taken a particular liking to me, which I can't fathom. I've never seen myself as the type of person that people take particular likings to. But Judy has, and there it is.

Judy sips her iced tea. "Why would you want to do that? You already do enough therapy, from what you're telling me."

This is exactly my point. "But nobody _pays_ me," I reply. "I'm lucky if I get as much as a thank you."

"Honey, that's because you are Maggie's mother, for all practical purposes. Mothers never get thank-yous."

Judy Croft always makes an awful lot of sense. Sometimes, she makes so much sense that it's annoying. She's right. I am Maggie's mother. I've prematurely aged.

After lunch, Judy walks up to the house with me when she drops me off and then inside. There, we run into Mark, who's happened to emerge from his room just now. Along with her particular liking to me, Judy's also retained her particular liking to Mark. She still a little enamored of him, being he's the author of one of her favorite novels. So she draws him into the conversation we were having at lunch, to play the part of a third party observer.

"Mark, darling, Cameron thinks she's missed her calling. She's decided she needs to be a therapist. What do you think of that?"

Mark turns to us with a deer-in-the-head-lights expression. Poor Judy, she doesn't know how awkward things are between Mark and I. But Mark manages a quick change of countenance and easily diffuses the situation. He's remarkably resourceful.

"Camry needs to be an editor," Mark says, and he gives a little nod to me. The nod seems like it could be something meaningful. Oh, he's definitely been reading my notes in his book. In fact, I think he's referring to them.

I can't help myself. If he's going to sub-textually talk about that book, then so am I. "Right. Because _you're _the one with the psychological insight."

"Ha," Mark says, and smiles a little ironically. "Maybe not."

Then Laurel enters the room and immediately assails Mark with complaints of neglect. "Wow, you've come out from hibernation. I was beginning to think we weren't friends anymore." She pouts. Her pouting is very adorable and probably in some way sexually appealing. And here I've prematurely aged.

"We aren't," Mark teases, to get a reaction from her. He gets one.

"Well in that case, you can take you narcissistic, antisocial self back to New York, and I'll find a new friend to fill up your bedroom. One who's actually nice to me." With that, Laurel flounces out of the room. Mark follows her out, with no more than a good-to-see-you thrown in Judy's direction. He says nothing to me. We're still not on speaking terms, I guess.

Judy watches their exit and then she observes, "She's a nice enough girl, but she's not for him."

In another world, I'd ask her why she thinks Laurel is not for him. I'd be thrilled to hear why another person has come to the conclusion that Laurel and Mark are not meant to be.

But in this world, I'm not worried about Mark, and I don't ask.

- - - - - - -

In keeping with my promise to Jim, I make an effort with Maggie the very next day. We go shopping. Maggie only wants to shop for shoes, she says, because she'll be too fat and ugly soon to look any kinds of good in clothes. I try to put the pregnancy glow thing out there, but Maggie waves me off. She's sure that she won't glow. She'll just be fat and ugly.

"I don't know why I'm having children," she tells me. We're wandering around the shoe section of a department store. Maggie picks up one shoe and then another, always ultimately rejecting them and setting them back down. I follow at her heals, kind of like a pet dog. "I mean," she continues, "Jim's always wanted kids, so I guess that's why. But I'm going to be a terrible mother, so, yeah."

And so we've come to the crux of the issue. "Why do you say that?" I ask. Although, I probably don't need to encourage her. Maggie generally wants to talk about things.

"Be_cause_," she says, her inflection implying that the reason why she says this is unspeakably obvious, so obvious that she can barely put it into words. "How am I supposed to know how to be a mother? I never _had _a mother. I mean, _look _at our family."

Maggie here actually has some very good points. It's possible that our family as ruined the both of us. I can't let go of the past, and Maggie's got an abandonment complex the size of Texas.

"True," I say. "Look at our family." I know I'm supposed to be helping Jim out, but how can I argue with her?

A sales person attacks us, asking if we need any help. Maggie tells him no, we're just looking, with remarkable calm. He leaves, first instructing us to ask if we do need any help.

Oh, do we need help.

"I just don't want to be like dad," Maggie says. "You know? Or like rich moms all are, hiring a nanny to deal with their kids, or boarding school, or whatever. I want to, like, _raise_ my children. But what if I suck at it? I'll probably suck at it. And then Jim _will _want a divorce."

Judy's right: I should definitely not be a therapist. Because I've not the slightest idea what I should say.

"I don't know how to be a mom," Maggie continues. "I just don't know what to do."

"I don't think anyone knows exactly what to do," I tell her. "I think it's just one of those things you have to figure out as you go." 

Maggie picks up a black patent-leather heal, and turns it around as she examines it. "Maybe…" she muses.

"And you have a good husband to help you out. Who _doesn't_ want a divorce, I might add." I shrug. "Hell, it's more than I've got."

Maggie is already starting to crawl back towards equilibrium. I can see her manner getting lighter, as the weight slowly falls off. I've been a good sister, a good sister-in-law, and I've helped Maggie realize that while she's not perfect, neither is anybody else. She actually jokes with me now. "Well, you could've married Jim, if you wanted to," she says. "But you didn't. Your loss."

"My loss," I repeat glumly. Somehow our roles have reversed, and now she's the cheerful one and I'm the one with the chip on my shoulder.

Sometimes I wonder if Maggie remembers that I was once engaged. She was the gone while the whole thing happened, at boarding school herself. Did she ever hear about it? Or did the news never make it to her? Or did it just get pushed aside in her brain, as something not important enough to be remembered?

"I'm going to try this shoe on," Maggie says decidedly, still holding the black heal. Almost immediately, the over-eager sales associate is upon us again. I suspect he's been listening in this whole time, just waiting for an opportunity to jump in and sell us something.

Maggie winds up buying the black shoes, and then insists that we aren't leaving until I buy something too. I manage to shake my melancholy and be happy about all of it. And actually, eventually, I'm not even faking my good spirits. I have fun with my sister, shopping for shoes. Maggie, despite her tendencies towards neediness and dramatics, is a genuinely warm person, and a fun person, and we get along very well. Afterwards, we get coffee at Starbucks and page through celebrity gossip magazines, and that's fun too.

All in all, I'm so elated from the simple, preserving experience that by time we get back to the house, I'm really _not_ thinking about Mark. And though he's sitting in close proximity with Laurel when Maggie and I enter the living room, it doesn't really faze me. I've realized that I don't need him. I already have the things that I need. I have people who love me.

"Hello," I say to them both. "Hello Laurel. Hello Mark."

"Oh perfect, Cameron," Laurel says, without sarcasm. I guess that she's been having some kind of play-fight argument with Mark, and she's looking for a third party to take her side. My guess seems to be right. She asks, "Aren't you getting bored of the Florida?"

Laurel is getting bored of Florida, especially with Mark's interest apparently waning. But I'm too in love with life right now to admit to boredom myself, even though that's what I've been brought into things to do. "No," I say. "I've bought shoes."

Mark is looking at me, with the signs of warring emotions written all over his face. Frustration. Reluctant bemusement. But I don't take the time to analyze his look to much. I simply smile at the both of them, and trot out of the room.

I am definitely making progress.

- - - - - - -

Laurel doesn't let the subject of being bored in Florida go. She pulls Bianca into it, and by the end of the week the two of them have hatched a plan.

"We want to go to Disney World," Laurel says to us at dinner, speaking for the both of them.

"Why do you want to go to Disney World?" Jim asks, wrinkling his forehead. He never did thank me properly for placating his wife. I wonder if this makes me Jim's mom too.

Bianca takes up the argument. "Personally, I'm feeling nostalgic for my childhood. Remember? Mom and Dad took us a bunch of times when we were kids. It was, like, my happy place." She pauses, allowing a moment for this childhood nostalgia to hopefully permeate her brother. Then she adds, with a self-deprecating smile, "Plus, if we go, Todd can meet up with us there."

Laurel cuts in here, "And Mark's never been to Disney World. Which is just sad. I mean, it is the most magical place on earth." She says the last statement with ironic exaggeration, which is funny. But I've stopped resenting Laurel for being funny, or for anything else. She can have Mark. Really. With my blessing.

Maggie turns to me. "Have we been to Disney World and I just don't remember it?" she asks.

"Alas, we have not," I say overdramatically. See, I can be funny too.

"Oh man," Bianca says. It seems to hurt her heart that so many of us have not been to Disney World. "It's my happy place," she repeats.

"This doesn't sound good for my writing," Jim interjects.

"Shut up. You are a stick in the mud," Laurel tells him. She says it with affection, but there's also an underlying frustration in her tone. Laurel is working hard to retain her hold a Mark, yet she knows that she's losing ground. Is it bad that this makes me secretly happy? After all, I can't do all of my moving on all at once.

"I don't have the energy to fight them," Jim says helplessly to Mark. And with that, things are all but settled.

"Disney World!" Bianca squeals, although it's debatable whether she's more excited about returning to her happy place or about seeing Todd. Laurel also looks rather pleased with the turn of events.

_Disney World_, I think to myself. _Orlando_. For some reason, Orlando is ringing bells in my head, but I can't quite figure out why. And then I do figure it out: that's where Elise has been telling me Eliot Camden is at.

And then I can't help myself. I have to talk to Mark. I feel like I'm bursting with interesting information that somebody besides me should care about. And he's the only one who really knows who Eliot Camden is. Mark and I used to joke about Eliot all the time when we were dating, and how Elise was always trying to push him on me.

So I catch Mark after super. "Elise had better not catch wind of this Orlando thing," I tell him.

He looks at me suspiciously for a moment. Then he cautiously asks, "Why's that?"

"Because _Eliot Camden_," I roll my eyes, "is in Orlando. If she finds out I'm there too, I'll be forced to look him up. After all these years of successful evasion, it would just be a pity to have to actually meet him, you know?" 

Mark doesn't seem to know how to react to me. He's utterly confused, and I'm a little bit perturbed. I'm just trying to be friendly. I'm just trying to tell someone about Eliot Camden who will know what I'm talking about. Can't he just respond like a normal person and laugh with me about it?"

Eventually he says, "Sure it would."

But that's not a good enough answer. I decide, from the episode, that it's probably best not to try and be friends with Mark. It's just too awkward.

Besides, he's read those notes that I made in his book. How awkward is that?

- - - - -

**A/N: **Sorry, sorry, sorry for the delay! Especially with the evil cliff-hanger last time. When I started getting second reviews from some of y'all, I knew I was way behind schedule. I've been writing annoying term papers (one on _Tom Jones _and one on _The House of Mirth_) but that's no excuse. Anyway, I can promise you that the next chapter is going to be from Mark's perspective, that it will be longer than most chapters from Mark's perspective, and that it will deal with what he thinks about Camry reading his book, and that I am going to try very hard to get it written over Thanksgiving break and up in a timely manner. Also, the legendary Eliot Camden enters the scene soon. What fun! Look forward to Jealous Mark and Cameron getting her flirt on.

**AmyI: **It's funny you say that, because I too cannot get through a book without reading the ending first. In fact, by the time I get to the last forth of the novel or so, I've generally read all the rest of it already, just not chronologically. Lol. Anyways, You're right. I think Cameron was getting a bit one-dimensional, so I'm trying to pull her back out of it. No more obsessive pining. Eliot Camden is coming up soon, and she's got Maggie to take care of, and a job interview to start worrying about.


	12. Another Interlude from Mark

**Nobody Screws Up a Second Shot **

**-**

**8.5. An Interlude from Mark, with an Element of the Prophetic**

From the start, I have a feeling about this trip to Orlando, and it isn't a good one. The fact that Jim and Maggie pull out only increases my foreboding. They ship back to New York the day before the rest of us drive off to Disney World. Jim, after all, has a _real _job to get back to.

Cameron wants to go with them. Her interview with Dave is closing in at the end of the week, and she's already bought the plane ticket for then. But that can easily be moved up so she can leave with Jim and Maggie. It seems like the most logical plan, and for a day or two I'm terrified that it will happen. Cameron will leave, and we'll never have another chance encounter like this, and I'll be stuck with her book of notes and a head full of unanswered questions for the rest of my life.

About that. My initial reaction upon finding her copy of my book is shock. I've come to terms with the fact that she hasn't read my book, dealt with and put it aside. Finding out that she's lied to me—that she _has_ read it—puts a whole new slant on things that I'm not ready for. It seems to turn Cameron into an entirely different person, one that I don't understand. It's going to take time to readjust.

I devour her notes. For three days, I barely leave my room. They're extensive and fascinating. Some are editorial. She has crossed out words she doesn't like, sometimes written better ones above them. In one chapter, she's crossed out an entire five paragraphs.

Those notes reinforce my conviction that she'll make a great editor. But it's the other notes I find myself more interested in. The personal notes. For instance, next to one particularly self-pitying paragraph, she's scribbled, _Oh __PLEASE__, Mark, I'm rolling my eyes. _On another page, where I chronicled an emotional conversation we'd had once about her family, she's written: _You suck. You put this in your book and I hate you, I hate you, I hate you for it._

And suddenly I realize what I right she has to hate me. All these years, I've been nursing my right to hate _her_. Yet here I've basically written a tribute to her every flaw, which is in stock and for sale every book store in America. They're making a movie out of it, for God's sake. Cameron _so_ has a right to hate me.

But the note of all notes—the note that keeps me up, and blows my mind, and makes me a little bit insane with questions—is on page 217. The chapter opens with the line, "On May 14, Freddie came to the unfortunate discovery that Cam didn't love him after all." She's underlined the sentence twice. In the margin, she's simply written: _No. _

What did it mean? Was it no, I was wrong and she did love me? Or was it no, I was right, and she never did? I'm terrified that she's going to leave and I will never find out.

But things work out for the best, in that department at least. Bianca makes herself immeasurably useful by insisting that Cameron comes along with us. Bianca simply _cannot _due without her. Really, Bianca could probably due very well without Cameron; Todd is meeting us there. But when Bianca has her mind set on something, the girl is a force to be reckoned with. She promises that she herself will drive Cameron the three hours back to the airport here at the end of the week, so Cameron won't even have to change her flight plans. And in the end, Cameron gives in.

"Fifth wheel," Laurel says to me about it.

Secretly, I'm thrilled that Cameron is coming. But I also can agree that there may be some awkward moments with the group we've assembled. So I round up a friend of my own to meet up with us—Grant Beckett, starving poet, who lives around the area and who will hopefully get along well with someone.

So in the end, Maggie and Jim head back to New York, and the remaining four of us head for Orlando. And I don't know if it's an element of the prophetic in me or what, but I know, I just know: this isn't going to end well.

-

**A/N: Hello my most awesome reviewers! Well, at least that didn't take as long as last time. And now I'm officially done with all my big projects till finals, so hopefully there will be another chapter up soon. And I promise you Eliot Camden within the next chapter or two! I also promise that Mark and Cameron will start talking again in the next chapter or two. Yay! Sorry for the anticlimactic chapter last time. Hope this makes a little up for it. It's short, but Mark chapters are. **


	13. An Ironic View

Nobody Screws Up a Second Shot

**Nobody Screws Up a Second Shot**

**-**

**9. An Ironic View**

I've decided from now on to follow the old maxim and go with the flow. I will flow with the fact that Maggie and Jim have bailed on the Florida trip. I will flow with Bianca dragging me along, even though she's meeting Todd. I will flow with Mark not talking to me again.

On the evening we arrive in Orlando, we meet a friend of Mark's for dinner—Grant Beckett, who is apparently an addition to our party. Also, he's apparently intended for me. In the spirit of my new go-with-the-flow attitude, I don't let that fact bother me. I choose to take an ironic view of the situation.

Mark, Bianca, Laurel and I—Todd is running late—meet Grant in Downtown Disney, where we've come to find a restaurant. He and Mark shake hands and are obviously happy to see each other. At least if Mark's paired me off, he's paired me off with someone he likes. Then introductions go around. Mark tells us that Grant is a starving artist.

"I love starving artists. It's sexy," Laurel says. Linking an arm in Mark's, she looks up at him and adds, "One of my many regrets about you is that you're not starving." Laurel's manner is strange. Were it not for her arm in Mark's, I'd think she was flirting with Grant Beckett.

"That's fine Laurel. That's fine," Mark says, somewhat unreadable. "Anybody else have any regrets about me?"

It's impossible to tell if this is subtly directed at me or not. Either way, I'm not playing these games. I determinedly avoid making eye contact with him, so there's no chance of me catching any meaningful looks he might be trying to send my way.

Meanwhile, Bianca is asking Grant what kind of starving artist he is (a poet), and Laurel has dropped Mark's arm. We all go to the restaurant together. For a moment, I'm walking in beside Mark, behind the rest. Having decided to take an ironic view of things, I nod my head towards Grant and ask, "For me?"

Mark balks and asks, "What?" He seems so taken aback, I would almost think he's not deliberately setting me up with this friend of his. Except that there's no other logical explanation for Grant Beckett being with us.

"It's okay. I like starving artists," I tell him. Then, imitating Laurel: "One of my many regrets about you is that you're not starving."

Mark regards me with a look of objectivity and then says in a matter-of-fact tone, "I'm curious about those many regrets."

"I'm curious about getting my book back."

We've reached our booth, and a stalemate. Mark and I part and make our ways to opposite ends of the table. I wind up sitting down beside Grant, which is fine. I may as well get to know him.

Grant Beckett is very tall, very thin, and very pale, with dark hair that looks like it needs to be cut. He's one of those people who appears to be a bit emaciated, not for not eating but just because nature made him that way. That, along with his jeans-and-zip-up-sweatshirt ensemble makes him looks positively emo. More emo than Todd looks. Honestly, give Grant Beckett a guitar and some eyeliner and he could play for Fall Out Boy.

Maybe Todd can add him to the band. They can starve together.

For lack of anything else to say, I ask Grant, "So what is it that you do, Grant? Other than starve? And write poems?"

Once it's out of my mouth, I realize that what I've said may have sounded patronizing. But I'm hoping that despite his angst-ridden appearance, Grant has a sense of humor.

"I'm a CPA," Grant answer straight, waving a hand away as if to wave away this unfortunate fact of his life. His answer doesn't signify whether or not he has a sense of humor, but at least he hasn't taken what I said the wrong way.

I take a sip from my water glass, then rest it against my lips. "So you're not actually starving."

"Spiritually, he is," Mark gleefully enjoins from his end of the table. Mark, who definitely _does _have a sense of humor, seems to feel the need to prove it.

I ignore Mark, and look to Grant for an answer. "I'm not actually starving," he repeats.

"Pity," Laurel says, with a shrug. She is chewing provocatively on her straw. I share a look with Bianca. Her expression mirrors my own. What is going _on _with Laurel?

I set down my water glass and turn back to Grant. "What kind of poetry do you write?" I ask him. I hadn't wanted to talk about his writing. I'm kind of disappointed that he is a writer. I've only known one writer in my life, but for me that's been one writer too many. Then again, at least this one's not a novelist.

Grant is reluctant to talk about his own poetry so I ask him who he likes to read instead. He starts listing off names, most of which I recognize but have virtually forgotten about since my survey classes. When he mentions Billy Collins, I perk up.

"I _love_ Billy Collins," I say, more enthused than I normally would be simply because I have something to add to the increasingly one-sided conversation. "There's a poem of his, it's titled something like '_Reading and Anthology of Chinese Poems of the Sung Dynasty, I Pause—_'"

" '_To Admire the Length and Clarity of Their Titles_,'" Grant finishes for me.

"Exactly! I love that poem. And _'Introduction to Poetry'_? Classic." Grant and I are both smiling now, happily having found common ground. I continue, "But really I'm more of a novel reader."

"I don't read a lot of novels," Grant says, then adds, "I've read Mark's." He nods to Mark.

Mark says, "So has Cameron." I glance at him, and he leans back in his chair and raises his eyebrows, as if issuing a challenge. He looks none too happy, as if he's sorry to see Grant and me getting along.

"I thought you hadn't read it," Bianca comments.

"Well now that I've gotten to know the author so well, I figure I may as well," I say. Ignoring Mark once again, I give my attention back to my new friend Grant. "You should read more novels," I tell him. "Because novels are fantastic. I'll give you my top-ten list. You can start at ten and work your way up to one."

"Where's Mark on your list?" Grant asks, and I begin to think that he may have a sense of humor after all.

"Mark's not on my list," I reply. If Mark wants a challenge, I'll take it.

"What's your number one book?" Grant wants to know.

"_A Room with a View,_" Mark says, before I have a chance to speak for myself. I could throw my glass of water at his antagonistic little head.

But no one else seems to find it strange that Mark knows, with a trigger reflex, my favorite book. Or at least they don't mention it.

Laurel, in fact, is completely bored with the subject at hand and wants to move on to something else. Which is just fine by me. "You know what I want to do?" she asks. "I want to go clubbing. Let's go clubbing tonight."

- - - - -

Later that evening, before clubbing, we are—Laurel, Bianca, and I—all getting ready in one of our hotel rooms. It is decided (mostly by Bianca) that I need a makeover. Mildly insulting as this is, I submit to her experienced hand. If she wants to put eyeliner on me and make me wear a skimpy top, that's fine. Whatever. Just get it over with.

But Bianca's makeover doesn't end with eyeliner. "Can I cut your hair?" she asks.

I'm a little taken aback by this. "Can you _cut _hair?"

"She's good actually," Laurel interjects from in front of the mirror where she's meticulously straightening her hair. "She always cuts mine."

Bianca pulls my hair out from its ponytail. "Like, I think you'd look really good with it cut blunt at your chin. Besides. Short hair much more professional. You're going for a job interview, aren't you?"

How can I arguing with such stirring arguments? How can I argue with Bianca? With some trepidation, I agree to her proposal.

Todd arrives after the haircut's taken place. He knocks on the door, then lets himself in without really waiting for an answer. Bianca's just finished my makeover, brand new chin-length hair and all. She lets out a happy sort of yelp when Todd enters and bounds across the room to greet him.

Once he's said hello to her, Todd turns to the rest of the room. "I hear I've arrived just in time for the party," he says. Then he notices the new me. Surprised at first, he looks me over and says with mock sadness, "Camry, Camry. You've let them change you."

Laurel now turns around for the first time to take a look at her sister's finished product. Under her scrutinizing gaze, I begin to feel nervous. I haven't had the heart yet to look in the mirror myself. I've no idea what Bianca's done to me. After what seems like eons, Laurel finally nods her head with approval. "You're hot, Cameron," she says.

"Look in the mirror," Bianca prods. And so I do.

And it's kind of amazing. I am kind of hot. Bianca's put me in her skinny jeans and a silver tank top. She's done some sort of smokey thing with the eye shadow. But it's really the hair. Bianca was right about chin length. "Good job," I tell Bianca.

She grins and Todd says, "Let's go party!" while pumping one fist in the air. He seems in awfully buoyant.

Laurel is out the door first. After she's gone, I admit to Bianca and Todd that I'm a little uncomfortable about this whole clubbing thing. I'm not a clubbing sort of gal. I can't really dance. I'm not sure I'm good at drinking either.

"Stick with us kid," Todd says, ushering Bianca and me out the door. "We're experts."

- - - - - -

Later, at the club, after we've each got a few drinks in us, Todd announces that he has something to announce. I have followed Todd's advice—or invitation rather—and am sticking with him and Bianca. Currently, we're seated at the bar. Todd's been saying all night that we're celebrating, and it seems he's finally going to tell us what we're celebrating for.

Calling Bianca and I to attention, he lets us wait for a moment in hushed anticipation before dramatically proclaiming, "We've been signed."

"Seriously?" Bianca asks.

"Like, to a label?" I add. It's possible that I'm a little drunk. Otherwise, I would probably not ask this pointless question. Of course to a label. What else would he be talking about? Like I said, I'm not very good at drinking.

"Pretty much," Todd says. "I mean, we're still ironing out some of the contract details and all, but yeah. Pretty much."

"Oh my God!" Bianca squeals, and throws her arm around his neck. Todd calls for more drinks—though really, do I need more? I'm as thrilled for Todd as anyone, but I can't help humorously noting that this means the very last of our starving artists will probably not be starving anymore. Laurel will be disappointed.

While the three of us are laughing and celebrating Todd's good news, I'm brushed on the shoulder in a deliberate way and turn around to see who it was. The man standing behind me is not someone I recognize immediately. He's tall, blonde, cute I guess in a clean-cut-New-England-prep-school way, if that's what you go for. He asks me, "Sorry to bother you, but do I know you?"

"Really? That's the best line you've got?" Bianca asks from behind me. It seems, having turned me into the kind of girl who gets picked up at clubs, she now feels responsible for protecting me from such predators.

But this guy, something about him does seem familiar. Maybe he's on to something. Maybe he does know me. Or maybe I'm just a little bit drunk.

The guy says, "Actually no. I've got plenty of great lines. I just really think I might know you. But I can't place where from." He looks to me for help.

"Move it along, Prep School," Bianca says, but I stop her because I've just put two and two together.

"No," I say. All the sudden this all seems like a really good joke, now that I've realized who this guy is. "He does know me." Than turning more to him, I continue, "I mean, you know _of _me. I've heard plenty about you, at least. I mean, I'm sure you've seen pictures and stuff, to recognize me—"

He interrupts me, his face breaking into recognition. "You're Cameron Harper. The girl my dear Aunt Elise wants me to marry."

"And you're Eliot Camden. I've been avoiding you for _years_."

"Likewise," he says. I giggle. It's all so funny, the irony of running into him like this. Or at least it all _seems _so funny. "Let me buy you a drink," he says, and I let him.

Meanwhile, our own Mark Salvo has materialized at my other side and leans himself against the bar between Bianca and me. Bianca (still looking skeptical about Eliot Camden, I might add) asks Mark what he's done with Laurel.

"Oh, she's with Grant," Mark answers offhandedly. "Apparently Grant can dance."

I'm half paying attention to this conversation and half paying attention to Eliot Camden, who's telling me how happy he finds he is to meet me now that he actually has. But I'm less interested in what Eliot actually has to say than I am in him ironically being _here_. So what I'd really like is someone to appreciate the irony with me.

Mark, who either has not noticed or is not bothered by the fact that I'm in conversation with some one else, asks at this juncture, "Camry, is this your drink?" He motions to the drink that Eliot just bought me.

"Yes," I say, and realize that Mark might be exactly the person I want. He heard all about Eliot Camden back in the day. We used to joke about how Elise wanted me to marry him. I turn to Mark, and excitedly begin. "Oh my God, Mark, you will never believe who this is. Eliot Camden. _The _Eliot Camden. Isn't that, like, the most crazy Dickensian coincidence ever?"

Instead of turning to size Eliot Camden up, Mark is still looking at me. The right corner of his mouth is pulling upward in a lopsided smile. There's a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. "You're a little bit drunk," he says.

This was hardly the most relevant fact at the moment. "Mark. _The _Eliot Camden," I repeated, trying to call his attention to what was really important.

"Ohhhhh. _The _Eliot Camden." Mark turns to Eliot. "Hello _the _Eliot Camden," he says, holding a hand out for Eliot to shake. "I'm Mark Salvo."

"_The _Mark Salvo?" Eliot asks. Maybe he's trying to be funny.

Mark looks at me with an eyebrow raised and I shrug. "No," Mark says to Eliot, with a world-weary sigh. "I'm afraid just Mark Salvo. No '_the'_."

"No, I mean Mark Salvo who wrote the book," Eliot amends. Which means he wasn't trying to be funny after all. I'm slightly disappointed.

"Ah. Yes. I did write the book," Mark says to Eliot. "I like the haircut, by the way," he says to me.

Instead of saying thank you to Mark, like a normal sober me would, I'm inspired to turn to Eliot and asks, "Yeah, how did you recognize me anyway? I mean, those must have been some _good_ pictures Elise showed you of me. Because I know I didn't look like this before Bianca cut my hair."

Mark, now helping himself to the drink Eliot bought me, mutters into it, "Of course you did."

Were I not a little bit drunk, I would register this as significant.

Before Eliot has a chance to account for his having recognized me, haircut and all, someone is yelling "Yo Camden!" at him from across the bar. He yells something back about needing a minute, and then turns to me. "So I should go catch up with my people. But," he pauses and looks at me meaningfully. "I'll be seeing you, Cameron Harper."

"Frat Boy," Bianca says, once he's gone.

"Don't be too hard on him Bianca," Mark says. "He is _the _Eliot Camden, after all." Mark, it must be said, seems in awfully good spirits for a man whose girlfriend—if that's what you'd call Laurel—is dancing with another man.

"Laurel and Grant are going to be awhile, huh?" Todd says to no one in particular.

I swivel around to face him and the rest. "I thought you were celebrating?"

Mark finishes off my drink and says, "I'll go find them."

"Mark thought you were pretty before your makeover," Bianca observes, once he's disappeared into the crowd.

"I don't remember him saying that," I say. Which is true. I don't remember him saying that. And I would remember him saying that.

Bianca crosses her arms and fixes her piercing gaze steadily on me. "Tell me the truth," she demands. "Something weird's been going on with you two. You more than took American Lit with him."

And here I thought Mark and I had done so well to keep things under wraps. I blink, stunned. "I took Western Humanities with him too?"

"Leave the poor girl alone, Bee," Todd says. He wraps his arms around Bianca from behind, and she leans back at him. To me, he says, "Ignore her, Camry. You know how Bee goes in for a drama."

"I'm not making this up," Bianca insists. "Cameron's hiding something."

But before I'm brought to defend myself against her charges, Mark reappears. And not a minute to soon. "They say we have two cars," he says.

"Then I say we go," Todd says, and we all heartily agree.

"So that was _the _Eliot Camden," Mark muses to me, once we're outside and walking to the car.

I shiver involuntarily. Even in Florida, it seems to get cool in the evening. "The one and only," I reply.

Mark takes off his jacket and hands it to me. "Funny running into him like this. The irony, I mean."

"Exactly," I say, gratified. I knew I could count on Mark to get it. I put on his offered jacket.

- - - - -

**A/N: Guess what, Austen-ites! PBS is airing Masterpiece Theater adaptations of all six Jane Austen novels staring this Sunday (January 13). Some of them are brand new. Check it out at I'm excited.**

**Um… So I've been getting reviews for a couple weeks now saying how long this chapter has been in coming. My apologies! I do have an excuse though. Finals, then Christmas, then my sister got married, all of which pretty much took over my life for the past month. You'll all be happy to know that there are no longer any finals, Christmas-es, or weddings in my immediate future, so the next update should be quicker. MUCH quicker. I promise. In fact, I will promise you the next chapter by next Wednesday (the sixteenth)… just as long as I get plenty of lovely reviews for this chapter :oD**

**Marshie12: **Grant Beckett is Captain Benwick in the book. And I bet you can guess who he ends up with ;o)

**Libretto: **Ooops… you're right. Sorry, typo. Lol. Don't worry! Mark will man up and try (at least) to talk it out next chapter ;o)

**slam a revolving door: **I remember you! Wow, I'm glad you like the story. I have comfort fics too. Don't we all:o)

**Sylvia: **Thanks for coming out of lurking. :o) And thanks so much for your review. Sorry the chapter took so long. But your ninja mice finally found me and compelled me to get this finished… Hee.

**AmyI: **I'm not a soccer fan… I'm a football fan and a baseball fan (wow, that just mad me sound _really _American). Should I be a soccer fan? Look forward to some more Cameron/Grant cuteness next chapter and poor Mark's reaction (and poor Laurel's reaction too). What fun!

**yoliem123: **To be honest…I have no idea how long this story is going to be. As long as it needs to be, I guess.

**SilviaB: **Man! People keep threatening me with ninja mice! But honestly, sorry for the delay. I know it was unpardonably long.

**Thanks to everyone else who reviewed. I wish I had time to respond to everyone. But thank you. Without your reviews, there would very likely be no story. Love to everyone.**


	14. The Magic

**Nobody Screw up a Second Shot**

**-**

**10. The Magic**

"There's a rule about Disney World," Laurel says to Mark as we stand in a ticket line outside of Epcot Center the next morning. She's adopted a solemn air. "You are not allowed to be sarcastic or demeaning about anything inside these gates." She waves vaguely in the direction of the entrance gates. "This is not time for your superior, grown-up cynicism. You must embrace your inner child."

"I must embrace my inner child," Mark dutifully repeats.

Laurel adds to Grant, who is also dutifully listening to her, "That goes for you too." Apparently, Laurel is very serious about Disney World.

"The child is father of the man," Grant quotes, and both Mark and I say, "Wordsworth." Laurel groans.

"This is where the magic happens," Bianca adds, once we've gotten our tickets and are heading towards the entrance gates.

"What magic?" Grant wants to know. And while Laurel proceeds to give him a detailed summary of exactly what magic Bianca means, Mark falls back a step or two and says good morning to me.

"Good morning," I repeat back to him, somewhat leery of his all-the-sudden friendliness. It would appear that Mark and I are on speaking terms again, though I don't recall exactly how this happened, or why.

"You met _the _Eliot Camden last night," Mark says. I look at him queerly and he explains, "I mention this merely because I'm not sure you remember, and recalling how excited you were about it at the time, I would be a shame if you forgot."

I was not _that _drunk. "I do remember, thank you," I answer curtly. Then as an aside, I add, "A pity I didn't get his number."

"I'm sure you can remedy that," Mark says.

"Hmm," I murmur thoughtfully. It's not really that I care much for Eliot Camden's number. It's just that I want to prove to Mark that I can play this game too—whatever game this is. The tone of our conversation has been either joking or antagonistic. I'm having a hard time identifying which.

But then Mark laughs, suddenly and unexpectedly, which quickly relieves some of the tension. "I'm just giving you a hard time, Camry. You're really a charming drunk."

He doesn't seem to have much else to say, and I certainly don't know what to say to that. So we separate, and I drift over to Grant Beckett: my designated partner. Not to imply that I resent that, because I don't. Not at the moment, anyway. Today is a nice day, and I'm at Disney World, and whatever else, Mark is talking me again. I'm feeling optimistic.

Grant and I begin the day with the customary kind of small talk strangers make for the purpose of getting to know each other. But I quickly find that Grant is as reserved about himself as he was about his poetry yesterday. Which doesn't necessarily make for a good combination, him and me, since I'm generally pretty reserved myself.

But gradually the day—or maybe the magic, Bianca would say—wears us down and lighten us up. And I, at least, begin to feel like Grant and I are old friends. I tell him that I've just graduated with my English degree, and he asks me what now.

We're in line for a ride, and I'm sitting on the metal railing that you're not supposed to sit on. "I have an interview this week, actually," I say. "With Mark's editor. He put in a good word for me." I feel the need to add the last bit for humility's sake. It's not like I'd ever get an interview with any kind of editor on my own merit.

"That was sweet of you," Grant says to Mark, who's right head of us with Laurel.

Mark shrugs. "What can I say? I'm a sweet guy."

Laurel rolls her eyes. "You are so full of yourself," she says to Mark. There's a growing frustration between Mark and Laurel, almost too subtle to notice, and I can't say what side it's coming from either.

The line moves, and I slide off the railing to move with it. "So what about you?" I ask Grant. Now that I've shared, it seems it should be reciprocated. "Tell me something about you that's interesting."

"Well…" Grant trails off, rubbing the back of his neck. Today Grant is wearing regular jeans and a T-shirt. He looks less like an emo front-man and more like a normal person. And he's not bad-looking as a normal person, I must say. "I was engaged once," he offers as something interesting.

"Really? So was I," I blurt. I have no idea why I say that. It has something to do with not thinking before I speak, and something to do with feeling the need to be encouraging to Grant by putting us on common ground.

As soon as I've said it, Mark starts and turns his head sharply to give me a look. His expression registers little more than surprise. With no excuse or explanation, I simply shrug. He turns forward again, but I can see him shaking his head almost imperceptibly.

Fortunately, Bianca is far away at the front of our pack and misses this small episode between Mark and me. I vaguely recall her being more than vaguely suspicious already, and if she'd caught any of that she might have managed to put two and two together. But she doesn't catch it, and so my confession passes as an aside in Grant's story, which he continues to tell me.

"Yeah. It was a couple years ago," he says. And that's it.

I have to say that I was expecting a little more of a story than that. But I'm not sure whether or not I should ask him what happened. Knowing myself that failed engagements make for sore subjects, I opt to let the subject pass.

Later, though, when Laurel demands to trade partners with me for a ride (explaining that she is "bored of Mark"), I get the chance to ask Mark about Grant's failed engagement.

"She died actually," Marks says. "In a car accident."

"Oh my God. Wow."

"I was glad you knew not to ask him what happened," Mark continues. "Actually, I was surprised he told you at all." For a moment, there's silence between us. Mark picks at his fingernails. Then he adds, averting his glance, "He must really like you." Then he looks back at me and raises his eyebrows.

I don't know what I can attribute Mark's awkwardness to. Something in the back of my consciousness is saying he's jealous, yet I keep shoving that idea back into the recesses of my mind. That can't be. "I think he just finds me non-threatening," I tell him.

Mark just shrugs and looks vacantly ahead of him. "He's a good friend of mine," he says. There's something almost begrudging in his tone, like he's relinquishing something that he'd rather not relinquish. "And he kind of needs a nice girl. He's sort of in a rut."

I want to ask: a nice, non-threatening girl? But I'm too chicken too. Instead I just shrug myself and offer that I think Grant is a nice guy. We sit for the rest of the ride in awkward silence, made bearable only by the puppets drifting by on either side of us, singing songs in Spanish. Afterwards, Mark goes back to Laurel and I go back to Grant, who needs a nice girl. There is no more partner-swapping. I tell myself it's probably for the best.

- - -

The days roll on, more or less uneventfully, until the day comes when I'm supposed to fly back to New York. I had been worried about where I was going to stay when I got up there, but my last conversation with Elise had cleared up that problem. She'd assured me that both she and my dad and Heather were all in New York now. It figured. Dad and Heather couldn't live without the city life for long, and Elise would rather pay for their lodgings than endure they're complaining. I couldn't same I blamed her. Choose your battles, I guess.

"Is Tina still with them?" I'd asked. 

Unfortunately she was, Elise informed me. That was annoying, but at least I would have somewhere to stay. Even if it was with Dad and Heather.

Anyway, the day comes when I'm supposed to leave. But my flight isn't until late, and Laurel suddenly decides that she wants to go on a pick-nick. So, near noon, she hikes us all up some mountain slash hill. All of us, that is, but Grant, who's working for the day. I resignedly step into my role as fifth wheel and determine to make the most of things. It's just one more day. I'm leaving tonight.

Besides that, I won't mind having some time to myself today. I'm pretty nervous about the interview thing, and it's been a pretty exhausting "vacation," all in all. I could use some time to collect myself and regroup.

We hick until we reach the top of things. Here there is a cliff, and beneath it is a small lake, or perhaps pond. "You could go cliff-jumping from here," Laurel muses, looking down from the edge.

But Mark shakes his head. "There're rocks down there."

Bianca and Todd take sides in the hypothetical debate. While the four of them duke it out, I separate myself and sit down a ways away. Then I lie down on my back and close my eyes. The voices of the rest of my group fade to background noise. I could fall asleep, take a well-needed rest.

But there is no rest for the weary. A voice—Mark's voice—is suddenly floating above my head. "So I have some questions," he says.

I open my eyes to find him sitting beside me. I glace over to see that Laurel is still bantering with Bianca and Todd at the cliff's edge. Then, looking back to Mark, I notice that he has my copy of his book in hand. I sit up. I've been wondering since he took it if we were going to do this. I'd begun to think not, but it looks like we are going to after all.

"Okay," I say.

"Okay?" he repeats, but as a question. It's nice of him, I suppose, to ask permission.

But I nod my head. I think I'm ready for this. "Yeah. Okay."

"Good." He smiles, and then opens the book up to a page he's marked with a sticky note. From the number of sticky notes stuck in there, I'd say Mark's been making a substantial study of my notes. As much a study of my notes as I made of his book in the first place.

In fact, there are toomany sticky notes, and he certainly has more questions that I'm willing to answer. I decide it will probably be prudent to put limitations on his investigation. "I'll grant you three questions," I tell him. "Like three wishes."

"Like you're a genie," Mark says, looking at me with a hint of a smile. I nod solemnly. "Fair enough," Mark says. He takes that sticky note out of his book and then begins paging through all of his marked pages, until he finds something worth using a question on. When he finds his page, he holds the book up face-open to me, and begins.

"Question one: why did you cross out this paragraph?" he asks, pointing to the paragraph in question. It does, indeed, have a very large _X _across it.

"May I?" I ask politely.

"By all means," he says, handing the book over to me. The formality of our conversation strikes me as funny.

I glance quickly over the paragraph—though of course I already know what paragraph it is. This is not as bad as it could be. It's an easy enough question to answer, and not even that telling of a answer either. I lean toward him to share the book with him, so that he can re-examine the paragraph as I answer.

"Because this is the most self-indulgent paragraph in the whole book. It's basically a twelve-sentence pity party for your poor, wounded soul. It's the one place where you slide into melodrama," I explain with my teaching voice.

Mark stares at the page for a second. He says, almost pouting a little, "I _like _that paragraph."

I briskly brush off his protest. "That's because you feel sorry for yourself."

"I _do _feel sorry for myself," he says. Then he frowns, as he rereads what he'd written. Finally, grudgingly, he admits that I'm right. "Okay. That paragraph is self-indulgent."

He takes the book from me and begins paging through it again. I busy myself by picking a blade of grass and setting it between my thumbs, trying to blow through it and make it whistle. I never could do that. Mark holds the book up to me again and says, "Okay question two. What does this mean?"

He's referring to a note I've written on page 278, which says: _Okay, if this is going to be about me and you, then please at least get your story straight._

"It means I think you need to get your story straight," I say.

"Nope," Mark says, shaking his head and shoving the book firmly into my hands. "I'm not taking that as an answer. That's like I ask the genie for Ferrari and she gives me the matchbox car."

"Well it _means_," I say, "that if you're going to name your character Cam, and put down our real conversations, and be so true-to-life, then you should be _true-to-life_. And here, I am very unfairly represented. Yes, I will own that I did rather abruptly stop taking your calls, but not because I was, quote—" I bring the book closer to read from it—" 'like the Grinch who stole Christmas, only instead she had stolen his heart. Perhaps this was because her own was too small. And his labors had been in vain—her heart would certainly never grow three times it's size. In fact, her heart seemed to be shrinking instead, and soon, he supposed, there would be nothing left of it at all."

I lower the book and look at him. "God, Mark."

He bites his lip. "Perhaps that was a bit harsh."

"A bit," I say caustically.

"I apologize," he says. I look at him for signs of irony or sarcasm, but I can't detect any. He appears to be genuinely apologizing. I breath in deeply, accept his apology, and hand the book back. He takes it, but closes it and sets it down.

"Question three," he says. "Why did you tell me you didn't read it?"

The question takes me off guard, and I have to think for a second. I'm not sure I know myself why I told him that. I think it had something to do with not wanting to give him the satisfaction, and thinking I would never see him again. I open my mouth to say something like that, but before I do we both hear Laurel loudly announcing, "I'm going to do it. I'm going to jump."

Glancing over, I see that she's sitting on the edge of cliff with her legs dangling off. Bianca and Todd have moved away, and are rummaging through the food we've brought with us. At first, nobody takes Laurel declaration seriously, but then she begins to stand up. And she repeats herself, "I'm going to jump."

"Laurel, don't be an idiot," Mark says, a clear note of exasperation in his voice, as he begins standing up himself. I lean back on my hands and continue collecting my thoughts on why I told Mark I didn't read his book, while he deals with Laurel. Surely, this is only a temporary interruption. He'll still expect an answer from me.

"I'm going to do. I'm determined," Laurel says, kicking off her flip-flops.

"Laurel," Bianca says in a warning tone. But the situation still doesn't seem all that dire. Mark, after all, is walking over there to talk her out of it.

But before he has a chance—before he can even get there—she looks back at him artfully. "Laurel!" he shouts, and then she's done it. She's taken the plunge.

For a moment, everything stops.

- - -

**A/N: Well, it's technically Saturday morning now, but that's only a mere three days later than when I promised this chapter. Better than usual at least. :o) I'm glad most everybody like slightly drunk Cameron. Maybe I'll add some more slightly drunk Cameron in the futures. There were some mixed feelings about emo Benwick/Grant, but what can I say? I guess he's emo to me. **

**Love to everyone. I'm pretty sure that my reviewers are the best reviewers in the world. So keep it coming! Next chapter will most likely be a Mark chapter, so you have that to look forward to so long as you… review!!**


	15. Laurel Defends Herself

**A/N: So this is not a chapter I planed on writing, nor is it a chapter that advances the plot in any way, shape, or form. But I felt, upon getting a majority of reviews which said either: "why did Laurel jump?" or "Laurel jumped because she is stupid," that I wanted to write something in her defense. I know I haven't taken that much time delving into the psyche of Laurel (so many supporting characters, somebody's gotta fall by the wayside). But I don't think she's stupid. I've always thought of there being a bit more quiet desperation in her jump than idiocy. And so I felt the need to write this little supplemental chapter. You're free to like it or hate it, but I'd love it if you'd tell me what you think. **

**The next chapter is still a Mark chapter, and a longer Mark chapter at that.**

**- - - - **

**10.1. Laurel Defends Herself**

Pretend you're me.

Pretend you meet this guy Mark in New York, you're brother's friend, okay, but he makes it clear he likes you. And why not? You're pals. You get along great. You think it's safe to make it clear you like him to, and it turns out you're right: he comes on vacation to Florida with the family, and you're pretty sure it's not on your brother's account.

Then pretend that while you're even still on the plane to Florida, you feel a different vibe from him than the New York vibe, like he's losing interest already or like something else is preoccupying him. Pretend he still keeps offering you his time, keeps up the flirting and the repartee. He's making an effort, but more and more you feel his mind is somewhere else. He likes you, sure. He thinks you're cute and fun. But he doesn't seem to like you enough to pay you his complete and undivided attention anymore.

Pretend gradually you start noticing something going on between him and your sister-in-law's sister, Cameron, the girl you already feel a little intimidated by because you know she's all the things you're not. The smart girl, the girl with interesting opinions, the girl who _reads_, dammit, and Mark is of course a writer.

It's not that you're not smart. You're plenty smart and you know it, but you also know that nobody thinks of you that way. They just think of you as a good time. A dumb, fun blonde. People don't take you seriously.

Well, you're _not _dumb, and you know something's going on there. Even if Mark is just asking her to read over his book. He could've asked you. You can read. You would have read it. You would have given him pointers.

You're not going to read it if he's not going to ask. If he's going to ask Cameron instead.

By the time you move the party to Orlando, you've had it up to here with Mark. He's still cool with you, I mean, you're still good for a laugh or a little play-fighting after all. He still thinks you're a good way to spend some time. But you're tired of him wasting yours.

You're instantly attracted to the new guy, Grant, because he's like the anti-Mark. He's got none of Mark's charm and charisma. You're through with charm and charisma. Look where charm and charisma got you. You're ready for a guy who's all shy sincerity.

But even though Grant makes it clear he likes you too, he still saves his serious stuff for Cameron. He still tells her his dead fiancé stories. He doesn't tell you, oh no. You're just the blonde after all. You're just the party.

The day before Cameron leaves you hike the group up to this rock overhang, over a lake that pretty deep. It'd be a pretty good jump from here. Mark tells you there are rocks at the bottom (like you're dumb, like you can't _see _the rocks yourself). But it's only, like, two rocks. There's a 97 chance you won't hit them. And it would be a good jump.

So you're sitting here at the edge of the cliff by yourself (who's the fifth wheel now?) and Mark's over there chatting up Cameron about his book, because he saves his serious stuff for her too. He doesn't take _you _seriously.

Nobody take you seriously.

And suddenly all you want to do is jump, to feel yourself falling and falling and falling. You don't care about the 3 chance you'll break a leg or your neck or something else important. Bring it on. You just want to feel yourself hit the cold water at the bottom, to sink and then emerge at the surface and squint against the sun and be a whole different person in a whole different life.

"I'm going to jump," you say, more to reaffirm your own decision than for anyone else's sake.

You hear Mark's voice from behind you: "Laurel, don't be an idiot."

_An idiot_. Fuck him. You're going to do it. You're determined.

You spread your arms like a crucifix, and spring.


	16. Quantum Leaps

**11. Quantum Leaps**

Maybe everyone experiences a moment like this. A moment when the world seems to freeze on its axis. When existence seems to hover around a single point of interest. Everyone _must_ experience something like this. Otherwise, the phrase "time stood still" would not have become so cliché.

Cliché or not, I must be allowed to say it. Laurel jumps, and time stands still.

At first we all say to ourselves: of course nothing terrible will happen. Of course she will bob to the surface laughing and triumphant. She is Laurel, after all.

She does not bob. Time, to catch up with itself, begins to move much too fast.

I come to, from my state of shock, to realize that Mark is stripping off his socks. He means to jump in after her. I think: we will have to bodies at the bottom of this cliff. I think: nothing will happen to Mark; Mark will be fine. I think: something will happen to Mark and I have not told him anything. I think: think of Laurel and not of yourself.

Mark is pulling off his shirt.

"Mark," I say, the moment before he jumps. He turns to me. I realize this will be done. Resigned, I nod. Mark jumps.

Bianca is in hysterics, so it's Todd that I turn to. "Call an ambulance," I tell him. "Then take Bianca to the car." As I hand him my copy of Mark's book, he already has his cell phone to his ear.

There's a trail leading down the side of the ridge to the water beneath. I scramble down the trail as fast as I can, my feet almost slipping from beneath me more than once. Careful Cameron, I tell myself, heart pounding. We don't need more than one injured woman.

As I near the bottom, I can here a voice. Then quite distinctly, I can here two voices—one Mark's and the other Laurel's. Laurel is nearly screaming. Mark, in contrast, is speaking in conciliatory tones. When I reach them, it's clear what the screaming is about. Laurel's leg is broken, and not the kind of broken that looks like it can be easily set. It's the kind of broken that looks like it's going to take some kind of surgery to fix—not that I know much about it.

Still, thank God it's her leg. I imagined far worse.

Laurel's eyes are squeezed shut with pain. "Fuck," she yells. "Fuck!" When she opens her eyes and sees me she says, "Cameron." She says my name with the same insidious tone that she had been shouting obscenities in a moment before. I don't take offence.

Mark glances up at me. I briefly place a hand on his shoulder to mean that he should take care of Laurel. Somehow he interprets the message, and continues with his conciliatory words as I reach into my pocket for my cell phone.

Clearly, we can't move Laurel until a stretcher gets here. I dial Todd, and walk a ways away from Mark and Laurel to talk. "Hey," he says. "Ambulance is on its way. Laurel?"

"She's okay," I tell him. "I mean, she's very much alive. Her leg is broken though. I don't think Mark and I can get her up there by ourselves."

"You'll have to wait for the ambulance," Todd says.

"Right. But I mean, tell Bianca she's going to be okay."

The ambulance comes. They carry Laurel—not screaming anymore—up the hill, with Mark and me following lamely behind. Bianca, with Todd, ends up in the ambulance with her sister, while Mark and I follow in his car. We are both remarkably quiet. It's true that Laurel will be quite fine, but the shock of the episode has jolted us back into a different reality. Whatever is between us no longer seems the most important things in the world. There are other things in the world, and one of them is Laurel, and Mark is supposed to be dating Laurel, is he not?

After some time, I'm the first to open conversation. "I need to call Jim," I say. "But it doesn't seem I ought to until we know something about how she's going to be. Her leg, I mean." I realize I'm as much looking for confirmation of this decision as I am simply telling it to him for his own information.

"Right," Mark says. "That makes sense."

We're silent again, and then Mark adds, "You handled that better than the rest of us. We might not have gotten an ambulance here if it wasn't for you."

"I'm sure you would've," I say, not sure how to take the compliment from a man who belongs to my sister's sister-in-law. I turn my head and stare out the window at the blurred scenery speeding by. I also need to call New York. One thing is for certain. Bianca will not be driving me to the airport in an hour. I can hardly ask her to do that now. The interview, I tell myself, is inconsequential in the face of real human tragedy. There will be other interviews.

Still, even my good-Samaritan impulses cannot completely suppress the slight twinge of disappointment.

We reach the hospital. Laurel's leg, we are told, will be fine. But it does require surgery. Bianca is less hysterical as they take Laurel to the OR. But it is still me who calls her brother. It strikes me, and I tell Mark as I wait for Jim to pick up his phone, that some one should probably call Grant Beckett as well.

Jim picks up just before his phone goes to voicemail. "How are you fairing, Camry?" he says in his phlegmatic manner. "Sorry we left you hanging there, but I'm sure you've been able to hold your own."

"Jim," I say, breaking into his jovial greeting. "Laurel's had an accident, Jim."

"What? For the love of—" 

"She's fine," I interrupt, realizing that perhaps I should've led with that very pertinent fact. "But her leg is broken pretty badly. The doctor's say it's going to be fine though. She's in surgery now."

"Wow," he says. His voice has a tone I'm not used to hearing it—worry. I'm not used to hearing Jim sounding worried. There's not much that fazes him. "What happened? Should I come down there?"

"I don't know," I reply. "I mean, I know what happened. She jumped of a cliff into a lake, and it seems she hit her leg on a rock. What I meant was, I don't know if you should come down here. I mean, I think everyone was planning to come back up to New York soon. I imagine they still will once Laurel is alright to take the trip. Do you want to talk to Bianca?"

He does want to talk to Bianca, and I pass off the phone. I sit back in my waiting room chair and rub my forehead with my hand. The chair is not very comfortable. I let my hand fall back in my lap and sit up again.

"Mark," I say, and look at him to realize that he's been looking at me. "You called Beckett?"

Mark nods and affirmative. He's leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "He's very concerned. I think he'll be coming over when he's done with work."

I nod back at him. "I suppose you have your editor's number?" I ask. There's a pen on the table beside me. I pick it up, prepared to jot the number down on my hand. "It appears I'm not going to make it to my interview tomorrow."

A look crosses Mark's face that I don't quite have time to analyze. Bianca is saying, "Here Camry," and passing my phone back to me. Then a look crosses her face too, but Bianca's look is easily recognized as a look of realization. "Oh shit, Camry. You're flight," she says. "I totally forget."

"Don't worry about it," I say.

"But your interview," she says miserably. On one hand, she does feel bad about my missing my interview. On the other hand, she very much wants to stay by while her sister is in surgery.

I have all kinds of sympathy for her predicament. "Don't worry about it," I repeat. "It's just an interview."

"I _am _going to worry about it," Bianca says. She looks twice as glum as she did a moment ago, and she was already looking pretty dismal. I feel bad. I'm trying to make things easier for her, but she is probably going to feel guilty at any event. It can't be helped.

"I'll drive her," Mark says, referring his offer to Bianca.

"It's really not a big deal," I try to interject.

But Bianca is saying, "Would you really? I would feel incredibly, incredibly a whole lot better if Camry got to her flight. You have no idea."

And so it is decided that Mark will take me to the airport after all.

We pick my suitcase up back at the hotel, and then we're off. The airport is a drive from here, and since we seem to have regressed into stilted silence, Mark hits the power button on his stereo. Instead of music, a book on tape starts playing.

He moves to change it, but I tell him I don't mind. So he leaves the book on. "What are you listening to?" I ask.

"Uhhh…" he says, a little bit sheepishly. "Forster actually."

Which is interesting, Forster being _my _favorite author and all. I sit back and listen for a few minutes, and then note, "_A Room with a View_, actually. My favorite book in all the world."

"Yes. It is that, isn't it?" Mark says. And then, trying to brush this off as nothing consequential, he adds, "Anyway, it's been five years since I've read it. I figured it was about time to refresh myself. Just trying to remember why certain people like it so much." He smiles at me sideways.

"Mmm," I murmur. We both settle into our thoughts for the rest of the ride, and we listen to Forster. I try not to overanalyze things. So he's listening to Forster. So what? Still, try as I may it's difficult to keep my mind from making quantum leaps. I just have to keep telling myself: it doesn't matter either way. Mark is with Laurel, isn't he?

When we get to the airport, Mark carries in my suitcase although it's really not necessary and only prolongs our awkwardness. "Well, thank you for driving me," I say once we're inside. I take my bag from him.

"Oh, of course," Mark says. Then he breathes in and adds in a rushed exhale, "You know, maybe we should…" He trails off there and reaches into his pocket, producing his cell phone. He holds it up, and I catch his drift.

"Right," I say. "Yeah." I dig my phone from my purse and trade with him, and we each punch our number into the other's address book. We trade back.

"Okay," he says. "Well, good luck with your interview."

I push my hair back behind my ear. "Thanks. And make sure some once calls me. About Laurel. So I know she's okay."

"Of course," he says. And then, "Well."

"Well," I agree.

He laughs. "I'll see you around, Cameron," he says. And then he walks away.

He says that, but I don't believe it. I don't believe I'll see him around. Getting back on the plane, I feel like I'm heading back to my life and out of this strange place where I've been living. I've got interviews to worry about, and living arrangements to work out (do I stay with my family or with Elise?), and apparently Heather is picking me up from the airport.

And Heather alone will surely be enough to jar me back into reality.

-

**A/N: I know, I know. It's been over a month and that was a short chapter and it wasn't even a Mark chapter. I actually wrote this chapter both ways – as a Mark chapter as this chapter, and trust me, this one worked way better. Anyways, I promise (and MEAN it this time!) that the next chapter is a Mark chapter and I will try desperately to have it up way quicker (midterms & graduation issues – cut me some slack, yeah? sheepish). And after that, it's Cameron in New York and the return of Eliot Camden! Hurray! So please review, even though it's taken me so long. I'm completely out of my depth this semester with classes. I need the encouragement.**

**Oh, and I have to say thanks for indulging me on that last chapter. I know it was a little stylistically jarring, and some of you weren't too keen on it, but I just couldn't help myself. So yeah, thanks for indulging me :o) **

**So, who's willing to admit they're watching American Idol? Jason Castro! (I know; I have no shame.)**


	17. Mark Relates a Series of Emotions

**Nobody Screw Up a Second Shot**

**0**

**11.5. Mark Relates a Series of Conflicting Emotions**

First let me say, I am I completely aware that I am something of an ass. Driving back from the airport, I cannot seem to stop myself from thinking about Cameron, about her number safely lodged in my phone, about my book which is really our book and what ever did happen to her copy of it? I'm desperate to know if I'll see her again. I'm desperate to know _when_ I'll see her again. I'm desperate to _see _her again, although it's only been ten minutes since I dropped her off.

I am well aware that these are not the things I should be thinking. Laurel is likely still in surgery. And although nothing was ever so strictly defined between Laurel and me, I certainly didn't leave my intentions up for much interpretation. So it's Laurel I should be thinking about, and I'm not, and so I know that I am an ass.

What I feel, as I drive back to Orlando, is the ever-increasing weight of guilt. I feel guilty because I do feel how I should feel about Laurel. I feel even guiltier because I've the lingering sense that her injury is my fault. She knows I don't feel about her how I should. She jumped for my attention. It's as if I pushed her off the cliff myself.

Along with the guilt is an ounce of self-pity. Because I can't help thinking that my life is ruined, or my chances with Cameron at least. Of course, I shouldn't feel sorry for myself, because if anyone ruined my chances with Cameron it was me. Me, with my stupid self-righteous best-seller, and my smug flirting with Laurel, and my inability to let go of the past. I have certainly mad a mess of things.

So by the time I get back to the hospital, I am miserable coil of guilt, self-pity, self-loathing, and fatalism. Laurel's surgery is done, and I'm directed to her room where everyone is gathered around. Beckett's arrived. I would be happy to stand in the corner and not be noticed, but my wishes are not granted. 

Laurel's face registers no extreme emotions upon my entrance into the room, and she simply says, "Hi Mark." Then she announces to the rest of the room, "I'm going to talk to Mark." I watch everyone file out with a growing sense of dread. I'm not sure what it I dread. Except that I will probably say the wrong thing in this wrong situation and prove myself even more of an ass.

I say, "I'm glad you're okay."

She waves a hand as if to bat my words away. "Oh, come off it, Mark."

I'm a taken aback by her dismissal. I mean, whatever else, I really am glad she's okay. "Actually, that was quite sincere," I tell her.

She smiles a little indulgently. "I know, I know," she says, and then changes to a business-like tone. "Listen, I know you're over it. And to be honest, I'm kind of over it too. So let's just say no hard feelings and call it a day, shall we?"

I blink.

"And if you think I was jumping off cliffs over you, I wasn't," she adds. "That was actually an act of defiance."

"I believe you," I say, struggling for the appropriate words. "I'm just—Well, I'm sorry."

"Seriously Mark," she says. "No hard feelings."

And then we let the rest of the group back in, and I am able to disappear into the corner. I can almost not describe how I feel. Still guilty, but it's a different kind of guilt. I feel guilty because that was way too easy. I feel like I deserve to suffer more.

But here I am, with my life my own again. And Cameron's number in my phone in my pocket. And when Todd says, "Oh hey, Camry gave me this," and hands me back her book, it feels kind of like a sign.

0

**A/N: Oh where, oh where have my reviewers gone? Uh… yeah. Well, that really wasn't as bad of a time lapse between updates (for once). Hope you all enjoyed this little bit of Mark (finally). Next up is Cameron in the real world! Woot! I know this was only a half chapter, but I'll try to get the next one up in a decent amount of time.**

**Thanks as always to all of my awesome and faithful reviews, especially the ones willing to admit they're watching Am Idol with me (I also love Danny and am sad about him). Please keep reviewing! You know how I am a review junkie! **

**AmyI: **Flower arranging? That's kind of…awesome. I didn't even know they taught flower arranging classes. Yeah, my last semester is 18 hours of literature & history credits…not a good idea at all…lol. I have it all planed out how Bianca will figure out about Mark & Cameron, but it might not happen for a while, since it'll be a little bit till the gangs all back together.


	18. The Proverbial Black Sheep

**Nobody Screw up a Second Shot**

**-**

**12. The Proverbial Black Sheep**

_At the end of January, in the middle of a lecture on the Romantic poets, Freddie suddenly realized that he knew nothing about Cam's family. It was strange, wasn't it? He had known her since August. They'd been dating since September. He'd taken her home to Virginia for Thanksgiving, and he didn't even know if she had siblings._

"_Are you an orphan?" he asked her at lunch that same day._

_Cam lifted her sandwich to her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. And Freddie—fascinated by the grace of her movements, the line of her neck, the constellation of freckles on her right arm—almost forgot that he'd asked her a question until she replied, "Sort of."_

"_Really?" Freddie asked. He had not actually thought she might be an orphan. He'd merely been opening the closed subject._

_Cam shook her head and smiled. "I have a family," she said. "But they're nothing like me. I am the proverbial black sheep."_

"_Do I ever get to meet them? You've met mine." Freddie knew he sounded petulant and juvenile, and he was annoyed with himself for that. But hew was more annoyed with her. He felt that she was keeping things from him. Or keeping him from her family. _

_When Cam finally spoke, it was with a tone of resignation. "I suppose you have to. But you're not going to like it."_

_He should have been glad to have won the argument, but Freddie felt strangely unsettled. It was almost as if he knew. Her family was the beginning of the end._

-Judas Kiss

_- - - - -_

I'm not particularly surprised—not surprised at all—when Elise shows up at the airport for me instead of Heather. But that doesn't mean I'm particularly happy about it either. Heather's barefaced indifference is easy enough to take. The awkwardness between Elise and me is much more difficult. From the moment I climb into the passengers' seat it's very apparent: Mark is the elephant in the room. Or, in this case, the very small car.

We talk about other things.

"Heather would've come herself," Elise begins to say.

I interrupt, not rudely. "Don't bother. I'm not broken up that Heather didn't come." And then silence. And then I say, "What is everybody _doing _here anyway? I thought the point of moving was to save money. There's no way they can afford whatever apartment or hotel or whatever you've put them up in."

Elise answers me, in effect, by saying that she'd rather sacrifice her capital then her sanity. Apparently Heather was not a very fun person to be around when she was stuck in Pennsylvania. "You're father didn't like it either," Elise says.

My father, I think, needs to grow up. Heather too. You would think my family had never heard of the concept of work.

"Plus now that Maggie's pregnant, I thought she would need us all nearby," Elise adds.

I wonder sometimes why Elise still feels she owes our family something. Perhaps it's that she just likes to run things, and we're like her own little empire to be controlled and manipulated. At least that's what Mark said, in his book.

"How was your trip?" Elise asks me, and I know that what she's really asking about is Mark.

Still, the subject is one I'd rather not talk to Elise about, such a point of contention as it is. In fact, I'm sorry I've told her about Mark in the first place. She could have never known. "It was a nice time," I say. "I've made friends with Bianca."

"How nice," Elise intones, but she's clearly not interested. And then she puts it to me bluntly: "And how's Mark?"

"He's lovely. We're friends now, I think," I say. And then for the sake of dispelling her fears so she'll leave me alone about the subject, I add, "He's dating Laurel."

A look of surprise crosses Elise's face, and she turns to see if I'm quite serious. I'm sure she wants to ask me more questions. But I cut her off before she can started by suddenly thinking of something to tell her that'll throw her off this track. "Oh!" I say. "I've met Eliot Camden."

Elise's expression immediately softens into pleasure. "So he told me," she says, looking at me sideways. "When I saw him yesterday."

I look out the window, twisting my hair around my finger. "So Eliot Camden is in town?" I ask absently, and Elise confirms it. I suppose this means I'll be forced to see him. To be honest, it means little to me either way. I don't dread meeting him now that I have met him, but I'm still not particularly interested. The most I remember about meeting him is that he was decent enough looking, that he bought me a drink, and that Bianca kept trying to chase him off.

"I have to warn you," Elise says. "Your father and Elizabeth still have Tina Frisk with them, with I believe no plans to relieve themselves of her."

"Great," I mutter. I open up my purse, remembering that I ought to check my phone, see what news there is of Laurel. Bianca has left me a voicemail, saying that all is well and they're heading back to the beach tomorrow. Nothing from anyone else, which means nothing from Mark.

- - - - - -

Heather and Tina are both at home (if home you'd call it) when Elise drops me off. And they seem to be happy to see me. They call me into the room they are sharing, where Elizabeth is fastidiously curling her hair and Tina applying a copious amount of makeup around her eyes. I sit down on the bed to observe the process that is Elizabeth and Tina getting ready for a night out.

"Cammmmry," Heather coos. "You must come to our party and meet Eliot Camden. You remember Eliot Camden that Elise was trying to talk you into? But you were too hung up on your little writer?"

The secret to a peaceful life with Elizabeth, which I learned many years ago, is to take no heed of her. She is always launching daggers at me, but I've learned to duck. _Your little writer_ is the dagger, but I ignore it and focus on the first part of her speech. "I have met Eliot Camden. In Florida," I say placidly.

"Well, not properly," Heather says. "You two should make friends. He might be part of the family someday." She pauses, than adds with false shyness, "Maybe."

Tina jumps right in. "Oh please. You know he's in love with you." Suddenly, I can see why Heather has been keeping Tina around. Tina is like her own personal cheering section. Who wouldn't want to hold on to that?

Heather eyes me through the mirror to gage my reaction to this earth-shattering news. But if she wanted me to get all teary-eyed and tragic, she will be disappointed. What do I care if Eliot Camden is in love with Heather? Truthfully, I don't feel that much of a loss. "How wonderful for both of you," I say.

Heather makes an annoyed sort of snort and returns her gaze to her own reflection. "Anyway, are you coming? Because you should probably not where your Salvation Army outfit if you are."

For the record, there is nothing wrong with my clothes. "No. As much as I'd love to spend the night getting drunk with you both, I have a job interview tomorrow."

"Cameron doesn't actually get drunk," Heather says, directing this comment to Tina. "Fun is not in her vocabulary."

I duck the dagger. "Have you seen Maggie?" I ask.

"Mmmhmm. She getting fat." Heather sets down her curling iron and runs her finger through her hair, loosening up the curls. She is very pretty, and men are often in love with her. Which she loves. She likes to feel powerful and stomp on their hearts. It is likely that she intends to stomp on Eliot Camden's. I wonder if Elise knows about this.

"Well, Maggie _is_ pregnant."

"I _know_," Heather says scornfully, though it's hard to tell whether she is scorning me in general or pregnancy in general. "She can't drink either, what with the fetus. Maybe you should give her a call, and you both can not have fun together."

"Have fun, Heahter," I say, and I get up to leave.

"Good hair, Cameron," Heather calls after me as I go.

"Thanks," I say, but she and Tina are already giggling together about Eliot.

- - - - - -

I settle in for an evening on my own. Tina and Heather will not be home until late; doubtless Dad has met up with them. I explore our living quarters. I try to raid the refrigerator, but it's basically empty. I find a paper several days old on the kitchen table and open up to the crossword to try to calm my nerves.

Jim calls. "You're back?"

I affirm.

"Good," he says, audibly relieved. "Maggie's having hormones."

"My interview is tomorrow morning," I say. "I'm having anxiety. Ask me sample questions."

Jim spends an hour drilling me on possible interview questions, then gives the phone to Maggie. Maggie spends an hour complaining of morning sickness. Then I hang up and spend an hour finishing my crossword. And then I go to bed.

- - - - -

Just when I think my interview is over and gone fairly well, my anemic resume aside, David Cowl says, "You know, I got a letter from Mark Salvo about you. He says" – here Cowl lifts up a sheet of paper and glance over it – "that _Judas Kiss _wouldn't have been possible without you. I don't have to tell you what high praise that is."

If David Cowl is going to hire me based on that phrase, I will probably feel guilty forever. It is true to the letter, but Mark does not meet what David Cowl thinks he means. But since it would take to long to set the record straight on this, I simply say, "Well, we both know, I'm sure, that Mark's one for hyperbole."

"True," David Cowl smiles. "But so far his hyperbole has made me a lot of money. I'm willing to stake a few things on his hyperbole." He looks at me for a moment and then says, "Well, I think that about wraps us up. Of course I can't tell you right now, but you'll hear from us in a couple days."

- - - - - -

I walk out of the building and into the wide-open day.

-

**A/N: Yes I know, this chapter is short, kind of boring, and long over-due. It was horrible to write. I hope it wasn't as horrible to read. And again, I'm sorry for the wait. I don't even know what to say. Also: sorry for the no Mark in this chapter, but I'm afraid you'll have to wait a bit for him. Eliot Camden coming up next (and when I say next, I mean **_**next **_**this time).**

**Anyway, if you would be so kind as to review, I would appreciate it much. Although I'm sure I probably don't deserve it. Thank you all for sticking with me, however delinquent I have been lately in getting chapters up in a timely matter. Hopefully that will change in the near future.**


	19. Tell Me Your Story

13

**ATTENTION! PLEASE READ: Okay. You've all pointed out some blaring inconsistencies of late, so I just wanted to clear some things up before we get started. #1) Heather's name is Heather and not Elizabeth. For some reason I kept writing Elizabeth in the last chapter, but it's all meant to be Heather. Sorry about that. It's fixed now. #2) Cameron's last name is Harper, not Lewis, and that is also fixed (in chapter 9). #3) Someday soon I intend to go through all of the so far chapters and fix all the typos and repost them. I'll let you know when that happens. Until then, I'm trying to be a better proofreading of these ongoing chapters. Thanks for baring with me**

**-**

**Nobody Screws Up a Second Shot**

**-**

**13. Tell Me Your Story**

The day after my interview, I realize that there is not much for me to in New York besides wait for phone calls. My options are basically to endure Heather & Co. or to keep Maggie company. I prefer the latter.

I also realize that for the past month I've been living on borrowed time. Vacation with the idle rich allowed me to temporarily ignore the facts of life. But the facts are that my bank account is becoming dangerously depleted and I'm still suffering from a lack of general direction. And if Mark's publishing job doesn't pan out, I've no other bright ideas.

And so this afternoon, while Maggie peruses various baby name books, I sit beside her on her couch scrolling through an online job search engine.

"What about Ericka, if it's a girl? That's kind of cute," Maggie says.

I wrinkle my nose. "Ugh. All I can think about when you say Ericka is Mrs. Rosendale. You know, who dad paid to teach us piano when we were kids?"

Now Maggie makes her own face. "I forgot her name was Ericka. I was terrified of her."

"That because she used to hit our hands when we played the wrong notes."

"Never mind. New name," Maggie says, turning the page of her book.

I return to scrolling through available positions in the area. Although the question of whether I really want to remain in the area is still up for debate. But, well, where else am I going to live? "I'd probably make a decent administrative assistant," I muse.

"You do realize that means secretary, right?" Maggie asks. "Anyway, Jim says you don't need to be doing that. He says you're going to get the publishing job."

"Jim's an optimist," I say. "I'm a realist."

"What if Jim's the realist?"

I have nothing to say to that. After a minute, Maggie says, "What about Dana?"

I close my laptop and lean my head back against the couch. Something strikes me as familiar about the name, but it takes me a minute to think of what it is. And then it suddenly comes to me. "Dana Malloy," I say.

Maggie merely raises her eyebrows. I explain, "I went to high school with her. We were really good friends. Remember? The one who got married right after graduation? I was in her wedding."

"Vaguely," Maggie says, clearly disinterested.

I suddenly can't believe how bad I am at keeping up with people. "I wonder if she's still around up here," I say, more to myself than Maggie. "I bet she is."

I open my laptop back up and switch from the online job search engine to a white pages site. I type in Dana's name and press the search button. A minute later, I'm afforded with her address and telephone number. And she is still in New York. "Well look at that," I say. "Technology is amazing."

Maggie glances over my shoulder. "Looks like Dana's in government housing," she observes. Then she returns her attention to her book, placing one hand on her slightly-expanded stomach. "Anyway," she says, "Do you want to come to dinner with me in Jim tonight or what? Jim hasn't seen you since you got back."

"I can't afford dinner," I say, only half joking.

Maggie rolls her eyes. "Oh please. Jim can." 

But I have to say, I'm beginning to tire a little of living off other people's charity. "Yeah well. I'm suppose to meet Elise for dinner, actually."

Maggie makes a snorting sound. "Too bad for _you_."

Maybe so. I sigh, shutting my computer back up again, and tell her that I'd better go.

- - - - - - -

Around two hours later, I'm sitting on a bench outside of the restaurant where I'm supposed to meet Elise, scrolling through old text messages on my cell phone. Then someone says in a voice vaguely familiar, "I've been hoping you would show up sooner or later."

I'm not sure whether the voice is addressing me. But I look up and register Eliot Camden standing in front of me. I shut my phone and cross my arms, leaning back to take him in. He's grinning down on me, in his kakis and button up shirt, looking like he just stepped out of a J-Crew catalogue. "I take it I'm not having dinner with Elise," I say.

"It's the whole reason I've been hanging around here, you know," Eliot continues matter-of-factly. He extends a hand to me.

I take the hand and allow him to help me stand. Then I let the hand go. "Really? Because I heard you were hanging around on account of Heather."

"Just biding my time, Harper," he says and opens the restaurant door for me.

"Hmm," I intone as I step inside and he follows me. I've already realized that I won't mind having lunch with Eliot Camden, even though I've been tricked into it. I'm bored enough, and he seems amusing and innocuous. If we become pals, it will probably be a welcome respite from the rest of my mundane existence.

We follow the hostess to our table. "So I must have made an impression then?" I ask, once seated across from him.

"Yes, you were quite enchanting," Eliot says. The way he says things, everything ends up sounding offhand. He's slick is what he is, which could probably be boiled down to a general lack of sincerity. But what do I care about that? I'm not looking for a soul mate. But someone to hang out with casually might be nice, in which case a lack of sincerity might be a plus.

"I take it I didn't make an impression at all," Eliot continues, with a self-deprecating smile.

"No, I remember meeting you," I protest. "Generally."

Eliot laughs. "It's alright. I don't hold it against you. After all, you were in the company of the famous Mark Salvo. I wouldn't expect you to remember me."

"Oh him," I say, shrugging Mark off like I want to be able to. "He dates my sister's sister-in-law. That's all."

But Eliot is not buying it that easily. "_Rea_lly? Because I could've sworn there was something there beyond that." He pauses to allow me to respond to his prodding. When I chose not to he says, "Tell me your story, Harper."

I consider it, but shake my head. "No. What fun would it be without a little mystery?" He nods in acquiescence to my assertion, and I continue, "Besides, you're notorious in your own right, you know. I've been ducking you for years."

"Likewise. But only because I didn't know what I was ducking."

I smile. It's impossible not to enjoy his charm. "Likewise," I reply.

"You know what, Harper?" Eliot asks, adopting an air of authority. "I think we are going to have a good time together."

"Good," I say, "because I could use a good time."

- - - - -

And we do have a good time together. In fact, I'm fairly certain that we're having far too many good times together to be healthy. But I've nothing to do, as I'm still waiting for phone calls. And Eliot, as part of Elise's well-moneyed family, appears to be above such trivial concerns such as work. So there's nothing to stop us from virtually spending the next three days together.

Heather is irritated. I go to a party with her the first night after dinner with Eliot, and she realizes immediately that Eliot's not paying her as much attention. She glares at me for a while and whispers to Tina. But then Tina begins hovering around Dad, and Heather simply moves on to another cute guy who's willing to buy her drinks. Eliot says something about wounded vanity.

"Yours or hers?" I ask him coyly.

He knocks me playfully on the head. "Cute, Harper. Real cute."

After three Eliot-filled days, I get what's coming to me. That is to say, I get the third degree from Elise. "You two seem to be getting along rather well," she prods. Elise is planning some sort of black-tie birthday party, for whom I do not know. But I've agreed to come with her on her errands today, for lack of anything better to do. Eliot had things he had to take care of today. So I've spent it visiting various caterers.

"We are getting along," I say. "He's very…charismatic."

Elise raises an eyebrow at me. "Charismatic? That's very nearly not a compliment."

"Oh, you know," I sigh. "He's very amusing and funny. But I think he's more the kind of person you have some laughs with than the kind of person you get serious about. Charming people, they're the ones to watch out for."

"That's a well-thought out philosophy," Elise says. "But I think, perhaps, you might give Eliot a chance."

But the problem isn't only that I don't trust Eliot. I'm not ready to be serious about anything either. Not so soon after the reappearance of Mark Salvo. I'm ready to have some laughs, that's what I'm ready for. Eliot's a good fit for me right now, just not in the way that Elise would like him to be.

"I am giving him a chance," I tell Elise. "Let's just see where it goes. Who are we planning this party for anyway?"

"My sister," Elise says. "Eliot's mom."

"Fun," I say. But to be honest, I'm tired of parties. The Heather kind of party is bad enough, and I'm sure this kind of party will be equally trying. But at least Eliot will be there, I find myself thinking.

- - - - - -

"You will be there, won't you?" I ask him the next day. We've decided to be tourists today and are taking a ferry ride to the Statue of Liberty. Neither of us has been since we were kids.

He offers me an incredulous look. "My mother's birthday party? Are you kidding? Totally skipping."

"What?!" I ask. Scowling, I push my hair out of my face and hold it back with one hand. "If I have to go, you ought to. She's your mother."

Then he grins at me. "Kidding, Harper. No need to freak out on me."

"I hate you," I say.

"You love me," he says. I roll my eyes. I'm involuntarily playing with my cell phone as we talk, which Eliot notices. "Waiting for a call?" he asks.

I laugh. "Several. At all times."

There's a pause, and then Eliot says, "I know what's bothering you, Harper," in a tone bordering on serious.

This is interesting. I doubt that Eliot really knows what's bothering me. He knows little about my job situation and nothing about Mark. But I'm interested to hear what he thinks is bothering me. "Do you?" I ask, leaning back on the boat railing and looking up at him.

"Tina and your dad," he says.

While this isn't at the top of my list, I have to admit that it is aggravating. Dad is way too old to be messing around with little skanks.

"Isn't there a way to get rid of her?" Eliot asks. "It is a little bit…"

"Degrading?" I supply.

He shrugs, and grins a little. "You said it, not me."

"Well, as you may have noticed, I'm not exactly the family favorite. My opinion doesn't go for much around here."

"Hmmm," Eliot says. And then he shrugs. "Well, you're my family favorite."

I laugh and shake my head. Then I stand back up straight again and turn around to look out over the water. "You're not my family," I say.

"Thank _God_," he says, putting a hand on my back and sneaking it under my shirt a little.

"Don't touch me," I tell him. It's become something of a game of ours that he pushes and I play the hard to get.

"Harper," he says, taking the tone of one mortally wounded. "You have a heart of stone." But he doesn't drop the hand back to his side, and I don't exactly make him.

- - - - - -

The next day I get a call from David Cowl. "Well, Miss Harper," he says. "I'm happy to offer you the job."

When I'm off the phone and everything's settle, my first urge is to call Mark. He did this after all. I want to thank him. I want him to know what's happened. And screw it, I just want to talk to him. We were friends, weren't we, by the time I left? We're allowed to talk.

But something stops me. He asked for my number at the airport. He could've called me himself by now. If he wanted to.

So instead I call Eliot, and we celebrate.

- - - - - - - -

**A/N: Hello again, lurkers and reviewers alike. Well, I hope you all enjoyed Eliot Camden, finally make his mark on the story. For those of you who might think he's a bit too charming and innocuous right now, I want his true colors to come out very gradually. But they will come out.**

**Coming up next: Dana Malloy (ie Mrs. Smith) who I may as well warn you now might not be the Dana Malloy you expect her to be. So prepare yourselves for rampant and unapologetic OOC-ness! Also, prepare yourself for the return of Mark!**

**Thanks as always for the wonderful reviews, and for bearing with the less-exciting-plot-advancing sort of chapters. Y'all are the best reviewers ever. So keep those reviews coming :o)**

**shokolade: **Good to have you back! A Room with a View is basically my favorite book on the planet, as you may have noticed. I can't promise backdrops of violates, but there will be some passionate kisses in store :o)


	20. Moving In, Moving On, Moving Out

At work, I'm a fish out of water

**Nobody Screws Up a Second Shot**

**-**

**14. Moving In, Moving Out, Moving On**

At work, I'm a fish out of water. In over my head, perhaps, but hanging out until I get the knack of things. It's exhilarating, and overwhelming, and I love it and it terrifies me all at once.

I stop going home to dad and Heather and start going home to Elise instead, which isn't ideal but definitely more bearable. It's a bit of a damper on my forward motion, but I don't know what else to do or where else to go. I've no idea how to even begin looking for my own place, or what I can afford, or if I won't get canned in a week, making the whole looking for a place pointless to begin with.

What living with Elise does mean is that I see more of Eliot, which might have been bound to happen either way. But living with Elise certainly facilitates it. There isn't Heather in the way, and Elise _is_ facilitating. Besides, we all have a birthday party to plan.

Sunday morning finds me stuffing pristinely printed envelopes with pristinely printed invitations, while Eliot sits beside me on Elise's living room couch watching the Tour de France.

"She's _your_ mother," I tell him. "Stuff some envelopes. Honestly, is it possible for a person to have this many friends?"

"But you're doing such a tremendous job," Eliot says. He will not help me, but he at least mutes the volume on the television. "And no," he adds. "They aren't friends. They're acquaintances." He glances at the stack of envelopes. "Probably not even that."

"Oh look, one for me," I say, picking up an envelope with my name on it. "I guess they aren't even acquaintances."

"I hope you're coming," Eliot says.

"For the spectacle." I seal my invitation and stand it up on the coffee table by leaning it against a decorative candle. "But what will I wear?" I ask theatrically. That's really only half a joke. I'm seriously out-leagued when it comes to the Braknell-Camden crowd. I don't think I own anything as sophisticated as these professional-printed invitations.

"I'll buy you a dress," Eliot says offhandedly, un-muting the television.

"I wasn't begging."

"I know," Eliot says, still paying more attention to the television than me. "You want a dress? I'll buy you a dress. I'd like to buy you a dress. In a little bit, though."

I roll my eyes. "As if you could tear yourself away from your little bike race."

"Hey," he says, something close to annoyance creeping into his tone. One thing about Eliot is that he sometimes can't take a joke, if the joke is on him. "The Tour de France is an institution. And it only happens once a year, you know. I said in a little bit."

"Don't worry about it," I say. "I've got to go anyway."

"Where have _you _got to go? I didn't know you knew anyone in this town but me."

That's cute. I begin pulling on my shoes and digging around in my purse to make sure everything's there that I need. "I'm meeting an old friend."

"Salvo?" Eliot asks, just to be cheeky.

I smack him on the side of the head and he grins at me. "Dana Malloy," I say. "She went to high school with me. I'm not old friends with Mark Salvo."

"Whatever," Eliot says. "So I could drive you if you want. Or there _is _this thing called public transportation."

"I already said don't worry about," I say, standing up. "Enjoy your Tour de France."

Eliot catches my arm and pulls me back down on the couch beside him, so that he can try to kiss me. I let him kiss my cheek. He makes a bit of a fuss. Then he says, "Well, call me when you're done. I'll pick you up. And buy you a dress."

"Fine," I say, wrestling my arm away from him and standing back up. "You're on." By the time I've gotten to the door of the apartment, he's already too re-engrossed in his bike race to say as much as goodbye.

- - - - -

I was supposed meet Dana at a coffee shop, but she calls me soon after I've left Elise's. "I'm sorry," she says, "but I've had a sort of laundry emergency. Katrina just spilled milk all over her last clean uniform, and she has to have something to wear to school tomorrow. I'd wait till later to go to the laundry mat, but now is when Shari can watch the baby. Sorry, but I think it's gonna have to be another day for us."

I consider my options. On one hand, there is the Tour de France.

"Or I could meet you at the laundry mat. We can catch up there as good as anywhere," I say.

"You wouldn't mind that?" she asks wearily.

"Not at all," I say. And in no time at all I'm sitting in a crusty plastic chair while Dana loads Katrina's uniform into the washing machine.

When I knew Dana, in high school, she died her hair ash blonde and dressed up for pretty much everything. In contrast, today she's wearing gym shorts and I giant men's sweatshirt. Her hair is a darker, muddier shade that's probably natural. It's pulled back into a messy ponytail, loose strands tucked behind her ears.

"Sorry about all this," she says, slamming the door of the washing machine shut. "But you know, life." She shrugs. Dana is the same age as me, but something about her makes her seem much older—a world-weary quality. I think she knows more about life than I do.

"It's okay," I repeat.

She sits down in a chair across from me and crosses her arms. "Well," she says. "I don't even know where to start. I mean, when was the last time I saw you?"

It has been a long time. The last time I saw Dana we were just out of high school, and she was getting married to boy wonder Christopher Malloy. He had a scholarship to MIT. He was going to be a doctor. They were going to ride off into the sunset together.

"You were wearing white," I say.

"Oh shit," Dana almost laughs. "Has it been that long? I guess you need the whole story then. Well, MIT never happened for one thing. He and this friend of his decided they were going to make their millions writing video games. Or Christopher was going to write them at least. His friend was going to…I don't know…market them or something?"

She pauses and shakes her head. Her tone becomes less flippant and more regretful as she continues. "Anyway, the whole video game writing plan basically turned into a lot of partying, which turned into Christopher driving himself home drunk one night and slamming his car into a tree."

I'm a little stunned. "I'm sorry," I say. "That's terrible."

Dana waves at me dismissively. "History's history. I mean, it_ was _terrible at the time but you can't keep crying over spilled milk, you know?"

"Right," I say, slumping a little in my chair. She certainly doesn't mean to, but Dana makes me a little ashamed of myself. Because that's exactly what I've spent the last five years doing: crying over spilled milk. The things that have happened to Dana are so much worse than the things that have happened to me. And yet she's managed to move on. It's something I should've done a long time ago.

"Anyway, it's not as bad as all that," Dana says. "I have two beautiful kids, and I'm getting along. Anyway, enough about me. What the hell's been going on with you? I ran into Jenna Wilkinson a while back – shit, years ago – and she told me there was some guy? You were engaged or something?"

How is it possible that everyone has heard about this?

"Yeah," I say, with feigned nonchalance. "I dumped him. He wrote a book about it. You probably read it."

She's eyes me queerly, like she thinks I'm joking. "So are you seeing anyone now?"

I think about Eliot, who is going to buy me a dress. "Sort of," I say. "I'm mean, not seriously, but there's this guy. We're hanging out."

"I don't have time for men," Dana says. "Two kids and all. And they're so not worth it anyway, you know?"

I grin. "They aren't worth much," I agree.

"Did he really write a book about you?" Dana asks.

I have to smile. "Yeah, he really did. I'm basically famous."

"Infamous anyway," Dana says, and we both laugh.

- - - - - - -

Dana and I leave the laundry mat with plans to see each other again. I check my phone. I have three voicemails. The first is from Eliot, assuring me that any time I want to grace him with my presence, he's ready and willing to buy me a dress.

The second is from Maggie, reminding me how pregnant and hormonal she is, and how tiresome it was of me to get a job. What is she supposed to do all the time, when Jim's working and I'm working, and it's Sunday so I'm not working, so where am I?

The third is from Bianca:

"_Camry! We just landed last night and we're back in New York now! I mean, not Todd, he's touring. But listen, I have a proposition for you, which involves the extra bedroom in my condo, which used to be Laurel's, but now that she's totally moving in with her new boyfriend I don't think she'll be needing it. Anyway, call me. I hear you have a job. We should do lunch or something. There is so much I need to tell you about."_

I listen to Bianca's message one more time.

"Moving in with her new boyfriend," it says.

_Moving on,_ I tell myself. I delete all three messages and dial Eliot.

"I'm on my way back," I tell him.

"Terrific," he says, sounding almost like he means it.

- - - - - - - - -

Soon enough we're on Madison Avenue. It looks like rain, but Eliot is convinced the weather will hold out. I'm not as sure. I keep glancing at the clouds, which annoys him.

"How was Dana?" he asks perfunctorily.

"Fine," I say, and that's all. I know he's not really interested in Dana. "Bianca—Jim's sister?—left me a voicemail. I think she wants me to move in with her."

"Why would you need to do that?" Eliot says. "You've already got, like, five places to live."

I feel a drop of rain, and look up again. "I've really got no where to live that's really my own. I think I might do it."

"I kind of like you at Elise's," Eliot says, as if he should some how have a say in this matter.

"I certainly am available to you," I say, with a smirk.

He grins. "Well, you can't hold that against me, can you?"

And suddenly the sky opens. It's raining. It's pouring.

"Come on," Eliot says, and pulls me in to the nearest store, a book store. I'm laughing, and he gallantly and dramatically says that he will find the lady an umbrella.

"It's a _book _store, Eliot."

"And people in book stores don't have umbrellas?" says Eliot, who can overcome any obstacle with charm.

He disappears on his quest. I turn away, still laughing, shaking my head, and browse the nearest rack of discount paperbacks. And there in front of me—a sign, a curse, call it what you may—is Mark's book. And something runs through me, like a jolt from the lightning outside. I run a finger along its spine, realizing that I don't know what to make of it anymore, this book. It seems so different than it did a month ago. And I wonder: however fun he may be, however many umbrellas he can charm out of strangers, am I still just biding my time with Eliot? Is it still not what I really want? Because maybe what I still want is to find out what this book means, not about my past but about my future.

And then a voice: "I will get you your copy back, you know. Don't have it on my now."

I whirl around, and there he is. Mark Salvo, with his hands in his pockets, and his smile cocked sideways at me.

**-**

**A/N: I live! I wouldn't be surprised if everyone's forgotten about this story, but nevertheless I'm going to try to finish it. If you're still out there and still reading, send me a line to let me know. Hopefully things will speed up soon; we're on the home stretch now. This chapter might now have been the most exciting, but next chapter is a Mark chapter, so yay.**


	21. Mark Has Something Else to Say

**Nobody Screw Up a Second Shot**

**-**

**14.5 Mark Has Something Else to Say**

So Laurel broke up with me in her hospital room, and I thought I was going turn things around. I had Cameron's number. I had her book. I had a sense of purpose and confidence. But I figured I would stick around for a few days. I had all the time in the world, after all. There was no reason to go running off after other women while Laurel was still in the hospital. Laurel was still my friend. I wasn't that insensitive. Cameron and I had the rest of our lives.

I locked her book in the glove compartment of my rental. And the longer I didn't call her, the harder it got to call. Until it almost seemed impossible.

While Laurel was in the hospital, I spent a lot of time working on book number two. I was on a kind of roll. But the more I wrote the second book, the more I thought about the first, and I began to lose that precious confidence. That book was mean. I was just plain mean. It wasn't something easy to forgive.

Todd went back out touring. Laurel was discharged. Almost as soon as she was out of the hospital, she was spending all her evenings with Beckett. I was surprised, but not surprised. They had seemed to be getting along. It was official within the week.

Bianca and I became friends through it all, as neither of us had anyone else to spend our spare time with. When she wasn't on the phone with Todd, and I wasn't on my computer with my novel, she and I would sit outside by the pool. She wanted to know if I minded about Laurel and Grant. I said I didn't at all. She thought it was strange.

She was paging through the address book on her telephone while we talked, and she absently said, "Cameron. I miss Cam."

Nobody ever called Cameron _Cam_. Hearing Bianca say it was jarring for me, and apparently for her as well. There was a long silence. And then Bianca said, "Cameron is Cam. She is _the _Cam."

I admitted it. I was relieved to have somebody else know.

"You're shitting me," Bianca said. And then, "I knew you didn't just have class together, or whatever story that was. You've both been weird all summer."

I couldn't stop myself. I had to tell somebody.

I said, "She has this copy of my book that she's practical annotated the way she written all in the margins and underlined and stuff. It's the best edit I've ever seen. And some of the things she wrote – I don't know what to think. Because she told me she wouldn't marry me and changed her phone number and she broke my heart. But she writes in the book like she's read it at least ten times. And I'm in love with her."

Bianca stared at me with her big brown eyes, and then leaned back in her lawn chair. She was silent for a moment until at last she said, "I going to marry Todd. We're engaged. I haven't told anyone yet, not even Laurel. Mom and Dad are going to freak."

"Bianca," I said. "I think it's time we go home."

- - - - - - -

So I'm standing in my favorite book store in New York City, looking for some Evelyn Waugh because that's the kind of thing I'm in the mood for. The store owner has bells on the front door. I hear them ring as someone either comes in or out. I glance absently towards the door, but when I see who it is I turn full around. It's Cameron.

But it's not just Cameron. She's with that guy, the jerk-ish one from the club in Orlando. _The _Eliot Camden. And they look pretty cozy.

So much for all the time in the world.

He says something about an umbrella, and she's laughing. Then he's off to somewhere, and Cameron turns to look at the nearest rack of books. It puts her back to me. I watch her as she grazes her finger against the books, until she pauses. My book is on the rack, and her finger is lightly resting on its spine.

Which makes me grin a little. I say, ""I will get you your copy back, you know. Don't have it on my now."

Cameron whirls around. She registers surprise, and then something I can't quite read. "Wow," she says. "I didn't know you were back. I knew Bianca was back, but I didn't know – I mean I thought – how are you?"

"Underwhelming average," I say. "But you're doing well. I heard you got the job."

She looks a little guilty then. "Oh, don't remind me. I haven't even thanked you. I should've called or sent you a fruit basket or something."

"I'm not the biggest fruit fan," I say.

She smiles. "I know."

I start to smile back and then I start to say, "Listen, Cameron—" But just when I get started, Eliot Camden rears his ugly head. He presents Cameron with an umbrella in an utterly melodramatic fashion.

"How'd you get this?" she asks him, biting the bottom of her lip a little. I have to admit, there is a certain way she looks at him. A certain way that I don't like.

"I can't tell you. It would ruin it," he says, grinning like he's so proud of himself about something. "Come on."

"I'd better go," Cameron says to me, sounding apologetic. Then Eliot Camden notices me for the first time.

"Hey, Mark Salvo," he says. He sticks out his hand for me to shake with a look like he knows something I don't. I hate him. I kind of want to punch him in the face.

Instead, I shake his hand and tell him it's nice to see him again.

"You too," he smirks. "See you around." Then he starts leading Cameron towards the door. In the rush, she does little more than wave goodbye to me.

"Camry, I'm going to call you," I call decidedly after them. She turns her head and nods at me, with a bit of a confused frown on her face. And then they're out the door.

I dial Bianca. When she picks up I say, "There is no way Eliot Camden and his smug overconfidence are going to stop me."

"Great," Bianca says. "Who's Eliot Camden?"

"The guy from the bar? When Camry got her hair cut?"

"Oooh. So you've got competition."

"He's not going to stop me," I repeat. And I sincerely mean it.

- - - - -

**A/N: Wow. After a record number of reviews on the last chapter, I thought you all deserved a quick update before the World Series swallows my life (especially after the months it took me to write the last measly chapter). So voila! I give you Mark.**

**Some of you have been asking how many more chapters there are going to be. I'm not very good at estimating chapters, but I think about 4 more left, give or take. When I finish this I'll probably continue with my Emma****fic **_**Stage Effect, **_**which has been on hold for a while now.**

**Thank you as always for all the wonderful reviews. My reviewers are the best reviewers. Especially if you all root for the Phillies tonight.**


	22. Phone Calls

**Nobody Screw up a Second Shot**

**- **

**15. Phone Calls**

One week later, I'm driving to Pennsylvania in the passenger's seat of Jim's truck to pick up the rest of my stuff from Elise's garage and bring it back to my new apartment with Bianca. The weather is warm and we have the windows open. The radio is playing softly in the background.

"You know," Jim chides, "I think I'm the only guy you know who has a real job, and yet I'm the one hauling you around on my sacred weekend."

"You're the one with the truck," I reply, looking absently outside the window.

"I'm also the one who should be home with my very pregnant, very hormonal wife."

"Yes. You are neglecting my sister," I kid. But there's really no one I'd rather be driving to Pennsylvania with than Jim. There's nothing that would be quite this stress-free. It's like break from my life.

"I'm not neglectful. I'm an awesome husband. And very attentive. And anyway, if you're worried about neglect, you could've gotten Mark to drive you. He can drive standard. I'd let him borrow the truck. Or Eliot. Actually, maybe I wouldn't let him borrow it."

I make some sort of non-committal grunting noise and continue to stare out the window. The truth is, I have voicemail from Mark on my phone. It's four days old, very unguarded and friendly, and I haven't answered it yet because I can't make sense of it in light of Laurel moving in with him.

Jim, still speaking to me or himself or just at random, says, "And to think when Laurel comes back in a couple weeks I'm going to have haul all _her _stuff. To the U-haul at least."

"Why are you renting a U-haul?" I ask, because as far as I know, Mark doesn't live far enough away to warrant that.

"Well, I'm not driving her to Florida," Jim says. "Besides, I don't think her all her stuff would _fit _in my truck. I've seen the boxes lining your living room."

Jim laughs at his own joke. My mind, however, stopped back at Florida.

"Hold on," I said. "Laurel's moving to Florida? I thought—who's she moving in with in Florida?"

Jim shoots me a look sideways. He chuckles a little, seeing my confused expression. "You thought she was moving in with Mark? Camry, you are so behind the times."

"Get me up with the times, then."

Jim gives me another look, this time frowning and bewildered by my sudden tone of urgency. He says, "Well, as far as I heard it was mutual consent break up between her and Mark. Just neither one was that interested anymore. And you know, I never could figure out in the first place if they were really ever official. I don't think he was ever that into her. Anyway, she's moving in with Grant Beckett."

And like that, the context of Mark's voicemail changes completely. Because he's not moving Laurel in. Overwhelmed by the immensity of it all, I turn away from Jim and back to the window to watch the scenery roll by.

"Nobody tells me anything me anything," I grumble.

Then Jim starts talking about baby names, and I re-engage and offer joking suggestions. And it's a pleasant trip. And the sun is out. And Jim and Maggie are having a baby. And it just feels like everything will come out alright.

- - - - - - -

A more unpleasant task, when I get back from the city, is picking up what's left of my things at Dad and Heather's. Unfortunately—or fortunately; it's hard to say which—Tina Frisk is the only person at the place when I arrive. She answers the door on her cell phone, and says derisively, "Oh, yay. It's Cameron."

This comment must be meant for me, but she says it into her phone. Then she takes a step back to let me in. I hurry back to my room to quickly pack my suitcase and be gone, while Tina continues her conversation down the hall. I can hear her clearly, with my door shut and everything, whether I'd like to or not.

"No, I'm not going to hang up just because of that—Yeah, well you know what I think? I think you should stop treating my like some two-cent hooker, because I am so not your personal call girl. You can't call me over at night after you spend every day—Fine, then maybe I'll stop coming over, and then we'll see how you feel about it—Whatever. I'm totally hotter than her—Well, fuck you."

There's nothing after that, and I assume she's hung up the phone. And really, I'm just hoping she wasn't talking to my father, because that would just be disturbing.

When I come back out with my packed suitcase, Tina is standing in the living room with her arms crossed and her cell phone still in her hand. She glares at me from the moment I walk in until the apartment door is shut behind me, without saying one word. I wonder what it is I've ever done to her.

- - - - - - -

Back at my new and decidedly less hostile apartment, Bianca is on her cell phone as well. "Hey Camry," she says cheerfully. Then she continues to a person who I assume is Laurel, "Yeah, so they're totally pissed. I think Mom and Dad thought the whole musician thing was like a stage I was going to grow out of. They just don't get that it's not about him being a musician. It's about him being Todd. You know?"

It turns out I'm wrong; she's not talking to Laurel. Five minutes later when I'm unpacking in my room, Bianca migrates in to ask me, "Do you want Chinese? I think me and Mark are going to go for Chinese."

"Can't," I say, relieved and disappointed all at once to have a legitimate excuse to avoid Mark. "I'm having dinner with Eliot and Elise."

"She can't, she's having dinner with Eliot and Elise," Bianca relays into the phone. I really would have preferred that she not tell Mark that. But I can't blame Bianca, who doesn't know anything of our history. After a pause, she says into the phone, "What, _I've _still got to eat." And then: "Okay, see you in fifteen."

She hangs up and walks over to sit on my bed and watch me unpack. "You should hang out with me and Mark. We're way cooler than Eliot Camden," she says.

"Don't knock it till you try it," I reply, nonplused.

"Hey, I did meet Eliot Camden, remember? In the club? And I already know from that how much way cooler Mark is. I mean: sexy, tortured writer or prep-school frat boy? Is there really even a contest there?"

I continue unpacking. I know Bianca must just be making her scatter-brained kind of conversation, but something about it seems so pointed. After a heavy silence she adds, "Besides, I'm cooler, anyway."

"That you are," I easily admit. "But unfortunately I'm otherwise engaged. Elise gets mad when people bail on her, because it's rude. I'd never hear the end of it, ever."

Bianca sighs, "Like I'll never hear the end of, 'Bianca, you're making the biggest mistake of your life marrying that musician. He'll never be about to support you.'"

"But you're going to marry him," I say, because I need very much for Bianca to marry Todd. It's not just that I like Todd, and I like Bianca, and clearly they love each other. Bianca is like my do-over, my chance to redeem myself by making sure someone doesn't make the same mistakes that I did.

"Of course I am," Bianca says. She hops off the bed. "Well, laters. Don't have too much fun."

I assure her I won't, and tell her the same.

- - - - - - - -

At dinner, Elise informs me that she's gotten the horrible idea into her head that we must invite Mark—Mark Salvo—to the birthday party. Apparently, the lavish black-tie, classical concert fiasco that's been planned isn't quite enough yet. And apparently Eliot's mom is Mark Salvo's biggest fan. Apparently, she'd just be tickled if he came.

And apparently, Elise wants me to invite him.

This is about the worst thing idea I've heard in my life. For one thing, I can't imagine what Mark would want to do less than go to and Elise party. For another thing, I can't imagine how humiliating it will be to ask him to do it.

And the fact that Elise actually wants me to call Mark means that either she thinks things are quite settled between Eliot and I, or she really is trying to torture me. But I'm so bowled over by her talking, talking, talking at me about it, that by the end of dinner I've told her I'll see what I can do.

Eliot takes me home in his car. He asks me, as we drive through the slow traffic, "Why do you mind calling Mark?"

Eliot can sometimes be pushy, I can tell this is probably going to be one of those times. I say defensively, "I don't mind calling him. I just know he's going to say no. He hates Elise. And I'm sure he thinks he's already done me enough favors, like getting me a job. I owe him favors. We don't need to talk about this."

But Eliot refuses to let it drop, like any nice potential-boyfriend should. "Yeah, you so don't mind," he says sarcastically.

"I don't mind," I insist. And because Eliot's made me angry, I add, "I'll call him right now." And I dial Mark on my cell phone before I can change my mind.

The phone rings twice, and Mark answers. "Hey, Camry," he says, sounding neither surprised, nor annoyed, nor nervous, nor thrilled. He sounds nothing but completely natural.

"So about that fruit basket—" I say as a joke, aiming for natural myself and not quite hitting the mark.

"If you really need to thank me, you can just buy me dinner sometime," Mark says. "And anyway, there's nothing to thank me for. You completely deserve your job."

"Well, before we start with all that, I actually have to ask you another favor. And you're not going to like it."

"I'm warned," Mark says, not sounding the least bit apprehensive.

"Elise is throwing a birthday party for her sister, Eliot's mom? It's this whole big, fancy concert thing. And apparently Eliot's mom is huge fan or yours—"

"Well, who isn't?" Mark gleefully inserts.

Smiling, I continue. "And Elise wants you to come, like as the guest of honor, I guess. It's next Saturday."

"Elise wants me to be her guest of honor?" Mark sounds amused.

"Technically not hers, her sister's. But I thought you would at least appreciate the irony, which is why I'm passing it along. You can say no. It won't hurt my feelings."

There's a slight pause. Then Mark says, "Well, how bad could it be? I mean, you'll be there, I assume."

"And Bianca and Jim and everyone."

"Right," he says. "And I'll get feel superior about being Elise's guest of honor. Her sister's guest of honor. Either way, it's some serious poetic justice. It sounds like it'll probably be fun. Do I get a formal invitation, or just the pimp call from you?"

"If you require one."

"I require one."

Having virtually forgotten by now that Eliot is in the car with me, and seduced by the easy flow of our conversation, I say impulsively, "You know, I just found out today that Laurel's dating Grant Beckett."

"Right out from under my nose," Mark says, not sounding too broken up about it. "I think I'll write a book about it."

"You're mean," I say, as things get closer and closer to flirting. "And a thief. You still have my copy."

"You can't own art," he says.

Eliot hits some random buttons on his stereo. More than anything, the gesture is meant to remind me of his presence. It works. I suddenly do remember him.

I say to Mark, "Listen, I'd better go. I'll email you the detail, alright? And I guess I'll see you there."

"I guess so," he says. "'Night, Camry."

After I hang up, Eliot lets the stereo fill the car up with sound for a while. Then he says, "Tell me your story, Cam, or have I already read it?"

"Shut up," I say.

And we are not on the best of terms when he tries to kiss me goodnight.

- - - - - - - -

**A/N: I live! Once again! Sorry for the wait, but not as bad as usual. And anyway, the World Series really did disrupt my life there for a while. Y'all are just lucky the Phillies won (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!) or else I would likely have been just too depressed to even finish this up.**

**Anyway, we are so close to the end now I can almost taste (wow, cliché). So I just wanted to say about that that I'm not sure yet how truly evil I'm going to make Eliot out to be. I mean, clearly he has some serious rough edges, but is it really necessary that he be Satan incarnate? Isn't enough that he's just not Mark?**

**So anyone who wants to weigh in on the level of Eliot's evil, feel free to do so now or forever hold your peace. The next chapter is more of a Mark chapter, and I promise you: Angst! Fights! Clearing the air!**

**In the meantime, I bow to you for your ever-inspiring reviews, apologize for the every-pesky typos, and thank you for rooting for the Phillies. Cheese stakes all around!**


	23. Clearing the Air

**Nobody Screws Up a Second Shot **

**-**

**16. Clearing the Air**

Another week passes, and I'm standing in front of Bianca's full length mirror. I've been standing here for at least the last fifteen minutes staring at my reflection. I'm wearing the dress that Eliot bought me, and mascara, and my hair is straightened out. The dress is black and falls above my knees and cost more than probably anything else I've ever worn.

Bianca bursts into the room wearing jogging shorts and a T-shirt. Todd is due back within the hour, and she's attending the birthday party with him, which her parents will also be attending. She'd gone out to jog off some of the nervous energy.

"You look hot," she says, removing her earbud headphones.

Despite what I may look, I feel anxious and awkward. "I don't have any shoes," I say miserably, though the shoes are not what I'm worried about.

"You're the same size as me," Bianca remarks, disappearing into her closet. "Did you know Laurel's come up too for this thing? And to get her stuff I guess." Her voice wafts out from the closet. Then she emerges with a pair of silver sandals and a dress on a hanger. She hands the sandals to me.

"They're comfortable and awesome," she says. "Now I've got about twenty minutes to shower and blow dry my hair. Suppose Todd will have to live with the results."

Bianca heads for the bathroom and I drift out to the living room. I sit down on the couch and turn on the television for background noise. Then I slowly start slipping on the sandals, one at a time.

The doorbell rings. "Come in," I say. The door opens and Eliot comes in.

I'm leaned over myself, hooking the strap on one of the sandals. But I look up and say, "Hey."

"Don't sound so happy to see me," Eliot says, sounding a little bit wounded. But he quickly covers it up with a grin, and he looks very nice in his suit

I stand up and brush my dress with my hands to smooth out the wrinkles. "I am happy to see you," I say, which is more or less true. Although I'm not sure if it's more towards the less side of true or the more. I give him a kiss on the cheek.

"Well you sure dressed up for someone," he says. "I'm just not sure it's not for the writer fellow."

I take a step back from him and fold my arms over my chest. "Would you stop it?" I ask, instantly annoyed. He's been on about Mark for the past week, and it has done nothing to help calm me down about the situation.

"Okay, okay, I've stopped" he says. He reaches out and rubs my arms soothingly. I'm not soothed. "I will try very hard to stop," he says, with a bit more honesty. He looks me over, and adds, "Nice dress I bought you. Come on, let's go."

I call back to Bianca, who may or may not hear me, that we're leaving, and follow him out the door. My goal tonight is just to get through the evening. I will be friendly to Mark, and attentive to Elise, and sweet to Eliot, and enduring of his mother all at the same time. I will not get cross at anyone or make anyone cross with me.

If all else fails, I'll talk Maggie into a hormonal crisis and leave early with her. That's plan B.

We arrive purposely early, which gives me time to pay the appropriate special attention to Eliot's mother before the real chaos begins. It's not that I don't like Mrs. Camden exactly, but she's very much like her sister Elise. Two of them can be a lot to handle, especially when all of their attention is devoted to ensuring a match between Eliot and me. But on a whole, things go well with Elise and Mrs. Camden, and it's a decent start to the evening.

And then the chaos.

As people begin to arrive in masses, I feel allowed to drift away from the center of all the attention and more towards the edge of the room. Bianca and Todd are the first people to arrive who I feel any kind of close too. I'm very happy to see them. I very happy to see them indeed. Bianca spots me and tows Todd over in my direction.

"Mark here yet?" she asks.

"She talks an awful lot about Mark. I'm starting to get jealous," Todd says cheerfully. He doesn't sound jealous in the least.

Bianca rolls her eyes at him. She truly did do very little than blow-dry her hair in order to get ready for the evening, and yet somehow she looks perfectly perfect in her blue dress. "It's just that I want to see him suffer," she says. "He's talked a lot about suffering in conjunction with this party. I find his suffering amusing."

"I told him he didn't have to come," I grumble. Although I'm looking forward to seeing Mark, I'm looking forward to it in an anxious sort of why. Really the night would be easier if he hadn't decided to come. He ought to at least have the decency not to complain about coming to something he needn't have come to, when he's only making things harder on me by choosing to coming.

"Well, that tells you something," Bianca says. I'm not sure what it's supposed to tell me.

"Laurel here?" I ask, just to change the subject.

"Haven't seen her yet," Bianca says.

"Unfortunately she isn't bringing her accountant," Todd says. "I so wanted to meet him. Really I just can't get over Laurel dating an accountant." He turns to Bianca. "Laurel's moving in with an accountant and you're marrying a rock star."

"You're not actually a star yet," Bianca joshes.

Todd puts on a hurt face. "Where is the love? Where is the faith?"

"He's a poetic accountant," I say. "I think Mark meant him for me."

Bianca snorts. "I doubt that," she says. I'm starting to get the feeling she knows more than she ought to.

At this point we're interrupted by Mark himself.

"Hello, everyone," he says. "I've just met Elise's sister, and I think she's exactly like Elise. Except she likes me a lot better than Elise does. It's all very frightening."

Mark Salvo has his hands in his pockets, and possibly looks nicer in his suit that Eliot does in his. Of course, this might just be one of those cases where beauty is in the eye of the beholder, in which case I've got some problems.

"We were just talking about you," Bianca offers.

"Nice things, I hope," Mark says, and looks hopefully at me.

Bianca replies, "Just that your suffering amuses me."

Mark turns back to her. "Apparently my suffering amuses a lot of people. That's why the book sold so well. Good to see you, Todd." And he shakes Todd's hand.

"I'm wondering if we really have to sit through a classical concert," Todd says. 

"As a musician, I'd think you would appreciate that," I kid. It's nice that Bianca and Todd are here. That way, I can avoid talking directly to Mark.

"Oh, there's Laurel! Let's go say hello," Bianca says. Then she adds to Mark, "On second thought, maybe you shouldn't say hello. Camry, keep him company." And she walks away across the room with Todd along side of her, leaving me standing alone with Mark.

So much for Bianca and Todd.

"Bet you're sorry you came," I say awkwardly.

"Not quite yet," he says, not awkwardly at all. It's amazing how he can always be so unflustered. I'm always the exact opposite whenever he's around. "I'm trying to maintain an air of artistic superiority. It's quite fun. I think I'll put it all in my next novel," he says.

"You keep talking about that next novel. I'm a little scared."

"You've got nothing to worry about," he assures me. "I promise never to try to obliterate you in fiction again. I learned my lesson the first time."

Conversation is finally starting to come easy for me. "That's a sweet of you," I say.

"Well," he says with mock seriousness. "I'm really a sweet guy. When I'm not obliterating people in fiction, that is." I laugh. He says, "Anyway, I've got your book in my car. Remind me to get it to you later."

"Wow," I say. "I have to admit, I secretly thought you secretly intended to just keep it."

He grins. Then Bianca and Todd are back with Laurel along. Laurel is leaning on crutches and still sporting a cast on her leg. But otherwise, she looks tan and healthy and really quite happy. She says jokingly to Mark, "I hope you're not avoiding me." 

"Of course I am. You broke my heart," he replies cheerily.

Laurel rolls her pretty eyes. "Oh please. I was never anywhere near your heart." 

Then suddenly I hear another voice from a little bit behind me. It's Eliot, and he positions himself between me and Mark and loops one arm around my waist a little bit possessively. "I can't believe you abandoned me!" he complains good-naturedly. "There I am, stuck between the two old ladies, and you just wander off and leave me for dead."

Laurel blinks at him. "Hello there," she says.

"Right," I say. "Everyone, this is Eliot Camden. He belongs to one who's birthday party this is."

"And to you, apparently," Laurel says.

I could slay her. I glance at Mark, who has pleasantly blank expression on his face and is looking somewhere above Bianca's right shoulder. I continue with the introductions. "This," I say to Eliot, "is Bianca, who you tried to run you off at the club."

"I remember Bianca," he says.

I keep going around the circle. "Todd, who Bianca's going to marry. Laurel, her sister, who's up from Florida. And Mark Salvo, who obliterates people in fiction. So you might want to be nice to him."

Mark glances at me briefly and then he shakes Eliot's hand and says hello, although this is the second time they've met. I'm feeling resentful towards Eliot for ruining my repartee with Mark and for touching me, which isn't fair. All in all, things are suddenly very awkward. I start wondering where exactly Maggie is and if she isn't feeling hormonal.

But fortunately, I'm saved by the concert part of the evening. We are all herded into another room, and our little group falls apart on the way in. I end up sitting down with just Eliot. It's probably best that way. But I do allow myself one glance over my shoulder, long enough to notice that Mark is a few rows behind between Bianca and Laurel.

I try not to think about. I try to enjoy myself with Eliot. That gets easier after a while. Eliot is, after all, a very enjoyable person in his way. But even while I'm having a pretty decent time, I'm still itching to turn around, to have one more look at Mark. So finally I give into the urge.

And his seat is empty.

Whether he's stepped out or left for good, I don't know. But I start to have a little bit of a panic. "Sorry, I have to get out for a minute," I say to Eliot. He looks at me curiously, but he moves his legs to let me past him. I sneak out of the room as quickly and as quietly as I can. Once I'm out, I stop and I wonder what exactly I think I'm doing. It's more than likely I won't be able to catch Mark anyway. And if I do, what exactly is it that I want to say?

But I see him. I see him as he's walking out the front door. I don't think about it. I just go after him. I hurry across the room and duck out of the front door.

"Hey," I call, taking a few quick steps in pursuit of him down the sidewalk. "You're leaving?"

Mark's hands are in his pockets. He stops walking, back still to me. Reluctantly, he pivots on the heels of his feet to face me. He's wearing an expression of exasperation, and he says acidly, "Yes, Cameron. I'm leaving."

The air outside is a little cool, and I cross my arms. I feel desperate and shaky, and I want to stop him. Only I can't think of anything to say that will.

He says in response to my silence, with even more exasperation, "Oh, come on, Camry. Don't give me the doe-eyed look. Do you really think I want to stay and watch that?" He gestures angrily back towards the building with his arm. "It's perfectly alright with me if you're seeing people. But, _come on_. Eliot Camden? The guy Elise hand-picked for you? You can't honestly be serious."

"What are you saying?" I ask. I can still feel tightness in my chest, but I'm no longer worried about him leaving. I'm mad at his attacking me, and I'm starting to get defensive.

"I'm saying I guess some people never change," he says, deliberately and cruelly.

"I _like_ Eliot," I say. "I like him. And you don't get to come here and rub salt in my moving on just because Elise likes him too, like I owe it to you not to like him or something, when you're the one—"

"Oh for Christ," he interrupts, and takes a step towards me. "You've been running around all summer with your big tragic eyes and your victim complex like some how you're the one who got the short end of the stick. But in case you're forgotten, might I remind you that I'm not the one who said, 'Sorry but you're not rich enough for my family,' and never replied to another phone call or email or letter. That was you. _You_ tossed_ me_ and stomped _my _heart into the ground."

"I know! I know!" I burst. "And I'm sorry! But I was _nineteen_, Mark, nineteen. And the only person in my life who I'd ever been able to count on for anything was completely against it. And, I don't know, maybe I made a mistake. But it was _my _mistake. It was mine. It wasn't yours to tweak and manipulate and sell across the United States for twenty-five dollars a book!"

His mouth is set in a thin, hard line. He takes another step, and we're suddenly very close. His eyes are bright and angry and intense, and I stare stubbornly back at him. For a moment I think he might kiss me. Then I realize he won't, and I only think that because I read too many books. I'm not sure I want him to kiss me anyway. I'm not sure I don't hate him.

Instead he steps back, and throws his hands in the air. The gesture is not surrender so much as it is an angry resignation. "Whatever," he says. "It's so over."

"It was over five years ago," I tersely reply.

He turns immediately around and stalks away. I watch his receding form, my fury quickly morphing into dread. Finally I turn around and dart back inside, where I look for the comforting form of Eliot Camden.

I find him quickly, alone and outside of the concert room. Which is a blessing. I'm shakier then ever now.

"Where have you been?" he asks, eyeing me carefully and curiously. I don't reply, but he can guess where I've been without that. "You need a drink," he concludes.

He leaves for a moment and returns with a drink which I wordlessly accept. I take a sip, and then another, while Elton continues to watch me. I realize that Eliot is either actually very kind or very opportunistic, but I don't know which, and I don't know which would be worse.

"You're going to get me drunk and take advantage of me, aren't you?" I ask him.

"If you don't mind," he says. "You don't have to get drunk if you don't want to."

"I want to," I say. "And I don't mind."

And both are true. Because I don't want to think. I don't want to think about anything at all.

-

**A/N: I blame the tardiness of this update on the sucky economy. I also blame all typos on the sucky economy. In short, I blame all my problems on the sucky economy.**

**Anyway, the extent of Eliot's EVIL will be decided in the next chapter, so if you want to weigh in on that now's your last chance. Wow, I am so democratic with my story.**

**The reviews are wonderful, and I must thank you all profusely for them. If I didn't have such wonderful reviewers, I would truly just never finish this. As it is, the story should probably wrap up in 2-4 chapters, can't say exactly. I will really (no, really) try to get those chapters up in a more timely fashion. I know I've been negligent of late, but I will really really try.**

**Review.**


	24. Second Bests

**Nobody Screws Up a Second Shot**

**-**

**17. Second Bests**

_Now Freddie finally began to see the truth, the horrible, ugly truth. He had loved Cam, but she had not loved him. Now she was gone, and there was no one like her, and he hated her, and he could not imagine life without her. _

_What was there between him and that great abyss, between him and the murky depths of despair? There was nothing. He felt him sinking. He did not care. Without her he was a wasted person._

_-Judas Kiss_

_- - - - - - _

When I wake up, the first thing I notice is the headache and the ringing in my ears and, in short, the massive, massive hangover. Then I notice that I'm not waking up in my own bed. I open my eyes slowly, but the brightness of the room is still a little painful. I'm in Eliot's room, I'm alone, and I'm fully clothes. I'm still wearing my dress from last night. That has to be a good sign.

I hear the shower running in the bathroom, and I wonder what to do. Do I duck out now while Eliot is out of sight, or do I stay and find out what happened after we left the party? Because I can't remember exactly. My memory is a bit hazy around the edges. I remember getting awfully drunk, and I remember—

The fight with Mark. I remember the fight.

The water turns off in the bathroom. It's too late for ducking out anyway, especially as I'm not sure at all where my shoes are. I sit up. I scoot to the edge of the bed and hike up my dress and try to look as respectable as possible, under the circumstances.

Eliot emerges from the bathroom a moment later, wearing nothing but his shorts. He barely acknowledges me. He doesn't look at me. He just grunts something that sounds like, "Good morning," and walks over to his dresser.

This is a switch from the way he's treated me up till now, all the attention he's been giving me. I'd say he's cross with me, although I couldn't say what for. He continues to ignore me while he pulls on a pair of pants.

"Would it be rude," I begin, "if I asked you what happened last night?"

With his back to me, Eliot runs a hand through his wet hair. It's as if he's composing himself. Then he turns around, and he's got his sarcastic face on. "You suffering from some kind of amnesia? Traumatic-stress induced maybe?"

I pull down on the hem of my dress, in a vain attempt to cover more of my legs. "I remember the getting drunk part. A little blurry on the taking advantage."

Eliot is in movement again, walking to the closet. "You've got nothing to worry about, because nothing happened. We made out a little, but you passed out on the bed before it got interesting at all."

"Oh. Okay," I say, not feeling particularly relieved or particularly anything. "Is that why you're mad at me?"

"What do you care if I'm mad at you?" he asks, from inside the closet.

I would ask what that means, but the truth is he's right. I don't care that much that Eliot is mad at me. I care more that Mark is mad at me. Mark will never speak to me again. He will probably write another book about me, despite what he said.

Eliot's phone starts ringing. "Should I—" I begin to ask.

"Leave it," he says, emerging from the closet with a shirt on. He goes to the bathroom and begins brushing his teeth. I don't know what to do. I go out to his living room and start looking for my shoes.

The answering machine beeps. A voice—female and familiar but I can't immediately place it—says, "Hey, it's me."

There's a pause. The girl continues bitterly, "Well, I hope you had a nice time at your party, that everyone in the world was invited to but me."

Another pause. I place the voice. It's Tina Frisk. Despite myself, I've stopped looking for the shoes. I'm standing in the middle of Eliot's living room, staring at the answering machine. Not devastated, but amazed. I hadn't for anything seen this coming.

"So anyway, I was just calling to see if we're still on for tonight. 'Cause you know, I didn't know if the high goddess Cameron had finally let you in her pants, which would mean you're probably ready to toss me. …..Fuck you, I bet I'm a better fuck then her anyway."

The message ends with a resound click. I notice, for the first time, Eliot standing in the doorway between his bedroom and the living room. I don't know how long he's been watching me. I fold my arms across my chest as I face him. I can feel the blood pounding in my head. I am very, very angry.

"You knew that was her. You wanted me to hear that," I say.

He shrugs. "Your shoes are on the couch."

I want to yell. I want to say, _what's wrong with you? I fought with Mark over you. _Because that's what matters, at the bottom of it. It suddenly seems too easy to blame the fight with Mark on him, and he's been sleeping with Tina Frisk the whole time. But I'm too angry. I can't seem to say anything. I just stand there grinding my teeth, with my chin tilted up at him.

He says, "Oh come on, Harper. I'm hardly going to take this self-righteous shit from you when we're exactly the same piece of work. It's all a game of second bests, isn't it? So I screw Tina because you won't let me anywhere near you, but you're doing exactly the same thing. You can't have the writer so you're emotionally fucking with me."

And it's like a slap in the face, because I think he may be right. "I'm sorry," I say.

"And he's an asshole," Eliot continues, not quite finished yet. "It takes an asshole to write a book like that. Honestly, I think the two of you deserve each other." With that, he turns around and disappears back into his room.

"I think I'll go," I say, to no one in particular. Because Eliot is certainly not going to respond. I collect my shoes and leave.

- - - - -

I don't think anything in particular about the voices coming from inside of my apartment while I'm unlocking my door. Todd is here for the week. Laurel could be staying over a night. Voices are expected. They don't seem out of the ordinary at all.

But it's not just Todd and Bianca in the living room when I walk in with my second-day hair and my wrinkled dress and holding Bianca's shoes in my hand. It's Todd and Bianca and Mark.

I shut the door behind me, which is the only sound in the apartment. As soon as I walked in, it was like the air was sucked out of the room. And Mark's brown eyes look at me, and they go from sad, to angry, to hurt, to just plain cold as he puts two and two together. He puts them together wrong, of course, but I can't really blame him for the conclusion he's coming to.

"Come on," Bianca says. She grabs Todd's hand and ushers him back to her bedroom, shooting me one worried glance as she does.

Mark stands up. "I came to apologize," he says, but his tone says more than that.

What can I do? It's already been such a morning, and honestly how can I ever explain? I don't have it in me to explain.

"Let me guess," I say. "And now you can't remember what for?"

"No," he says briskly. "I remember exactly what for. You were absolutely right. You're entitled to do whatever you like. I've no claim on you whatsoever."

He's completely formal and business like, and it's just unbearable. I can't bear it. "Mark, can we please—" I begin, but he cuts me off.

"I can't do it, Cameron," he say, his eyes and his voice suddenly so very, very sad. "I can't keep doing this over and over again."

And before I can do anything, he's somehow past me and the door is shut behind him. And he's gone, and gone, and gone.

I drop my purse and the shoes loudly on the floor. "You can come out!" I shout, because I'm sure Bianca has been just waiting for her cue.

She does come out, rather sheepishly, with Todd behind her. I stalk to the kitchen and begin banging through the cabinets until I've got out cereal and a bowl. I pour the cereal into the bowl. I get out the milk and pour that too, sloshing a bit on the counter. Then I sit down at the kitchen table with my cereal. I don't really feel like eating it. I feel like staring at it angrily.

"Glory hallelujah," Todd says. "What was all that about?"

I shrug. "Back in college he wanted to marry me. And I said yes, and then I said no, and then he wrote a book about me, and then Laurel had to go and bring him along on family vacation."

"Did you and Eliot—" Bianca begins.

"Of course I didn't sleep with Eliot," I interrupt, glaring at her. "But if I did sleep with Eliot, I would've been perfectly within my rights to do so. I'm a grown up. I'm allowed to sleep with whoever I want to."

Bianca blinks at me. I rest my elbows on the table and my head in my hands. "Mark is never going speak to me again, is he?"

"I don't know," Bianca shrugs. "Maybe in another five year?"

She's joking to try and cheer me up. It kind of works. I laugh a little bit, although I still feel more like crying. Todd asks me if I'm going to be okay. I tell them I will. I'm going to take a shower and go see Dana Malloy. I told her I'd come over today, and it'll give me something to do. What I need is a good distraction.

- - - - - - -

"So how's it going with that guy?" Dana asks, making conversation.

Sitting across her kitchen table from her, I start. I don't remember having ever said anything to her about Mark. "What guy?" I ask.

She looks at me queerly. "The one you were hanging out with."

"Oh. Eliot."

Now she starts. "Eliot?" she asks.

I stir the coffee in the mug in front of me and nod. "Yeah. His name was Eliot Camden. We broke up. This morning actually. Lovely start to my day."

"Well if we're talking about the same Eliot Camden, trust me it's for the best," she says.

I'm surprised. "You know Eliot?" I ask.

"Oh yeah," she says. "He and Christopher were big pals. I told you, they were going to sell video games together, make a fortune? And then they just ended up partying a lot?"

She pauses, sips her coffee, and continues. "Anyway, after what happened to Christopher, I think Eliot really did feel bad about it. He used to come round a lot, to check up on me and Katrina—she was just a baby then. And I don't know. I hadn't been in love with Christopher for a while, I think. It was like, he wasn't the same guy I'd married. And I'd blamed that on Eliot, but then he kept coming round and I though he was really sweet. So after a while we were sleeping together, and then I got pregnant with Mickey, and then he stopped coming round."

She shrugs and sips her coffee again.

"Wow, I'm sorry," I say. "I had no idea he was that bad."

Dana shakes her head. "I don't think he is all bad," she says in her clear-sighted way. "At least, I don't think he means to be. He pays his child support regular, and he would give me more if I'd let him. It's just that he's not any good. Not for any one. Least of all for himself."

"I think I'm a horrible judge of character," I sigh.

Dana shrugs again and smiles a little. "God knows I've made my mistakes. I think we're entitled to them."

I sip my coffee and swallow slowly. _Maybe_ _we are_, I think, _but not the same mistakes twice._

- - - - - - - -

When I get back home, there are two voicemails for me on the phone. The first is from Elise, and doesn't say much other than she'd like to talk to me sometime. The second is a rare message from Heather, and has to do with the fact that Tina and Eliot have apparently already become public knowledge.

"It's Heather. I just want you to know that I know all about Tina sneaking around with Eliot, and I think she's a total disgusting cow. I've totally kicked her out of the house. I mean, the bitch is living under the roof that we're paying for and she's screwing around with your boyfriend behind everybody's back. Totally disgusting. I just wanted you to know."

As offended as Heather might be, I know it's not really on my account. What the message really adds up to is wounded pride. I'm sure all she can think about is that Eliot went after both me and Tina and never twice at her. Poor Heather. It really hasn't been a good day for her either.

I delete both the messages and call Elise back. She doesn't answer, which I'm grateful for. I leave her a voicemail saying that I'll come to see her after work tomorrow. I'm not looking forward to the visit. I'll just have to explain to her about Eliot, and Eliot is one of those things I'm already tired of explaining about.

- - - - -

**A/N: And there goes Eliot….**

**Well, there's a quick update for you. I was inspired by all of your lovely reviews. So anyway, this one might very well wrap on in the next chapter, in the most the next two chapters. So review now before you lose your chance!**

**Peace and SUPPORT THE PHILADELPHIA EAGLES!**


	25. The Longest Day

**Nobody Screws Up a Second Shot**

**-**

**18. The Longest Day**

The next day at work is the longest day. I can't seem to accomplish anything. I spend most of my time watching the clock slowly tick away while composing letters of apology to Mark in my head. When quitting time finally comes around, I can't bear to go straight to Elise's and have the conversation about how Eliot and I will not, after all, be joining in holy matrimony. I decide instead to pay Maggie a visit. I didn't see her at all at the birthday party, and it puts off the inevitable.

Maggie is alone at home when I arrive. She answers the door in a track suit, holding a half gallon of mint-chocolate chip ice-cream and a spoon.

"I'm pregnant," she says. "I can eat whatever I want."

"Where's Jim?" I ask, as we walk back to her couch and sit down. She's watching some made-for-TV movie on Lifetime.

"He went out with his sisters for a while, thank God," she says, putting the television on mute. "Peace and quiet for once. Although they should be back soon. I like Laurel and all, but sometimes they're like a little bit too much for me, when it's all of them at once."

I smile sadly, remembering this was why she asked me to go on vacation with her this summer in the first place, which is how I met Mark again, which is what got this whole thing started. I kick my shoes off and pull my legs up under me onto the couch. I lean back and close my eyes.

"Maggie," I say. "Did you ever know I was engaged?"

I open my eyes and she's frowning at me. "Nuh-uh. When were you ever engaged?"

"Five years ago. It was when you were away at school, and I was at college. I don't think you ever heard much about it, but I was engaged." 

Maggie taps her spoon thoughtfully against her lips. "Maybe that kind of rings a bell. Yeah. It was, like, somebody totally gross and Elise had to talk you ought of it or something."

"It was Mark," I say. "It was Mark Salvo."

Maggie stares at me for a good minute and then she solemnly hands me her spoon. "You probably need this more than I do," she says, tipping the ice-cream container towards me.

I accept the spoon, and feeling suddenly shattered, I lean my head on Maggie's shoulder as I take a scoop of ice-cream from the offered container. "It's been a really long summer," I say. "And after this I've got to go tell Elise that I broke up with Eliot. He was sleeping with Tina. I'm not going to tell her that part."

"Shit," Maggie says.

"I know," I say.

"_That_ is totally gross," she says. "Eliot and Tina, I mean. Not Mark."

"I know," I say.

And then the front door opens, and in files the merry lot—Jim, Bianca, Laurel, and Mark. Mark is with them. I don't bother to sit up. I just sigh, and give Maggie the spoon back. Ice-cream really isn't going to cut it.

"Hello my beautiful pregnant wife," Jim says merrily to Maggie, completely oblivious to how quickly Mark's face changes to grim when he sees me. Bianca just sort of looks at me apologetically and shrugs. I again start composing apology letters in my head and trying to send them to Mark via mental telepathy.

But the problem—other than an inability to communicate telepathically—is that I can't put my fingers on exactly what I'm sorry for. I have done anything wrong, exactly. And at the same time I've done everything wrong. And what I'm sorry for, I guess, is screwing up my second chance. Who does that? Nobody screws up a second shot.

Meanwhile, Jim has sat down on the other side of Maggie. Laurel wanders over to the window and looks absently down at the street below.

"Where's Todd?" I ask Bianca, since Jim and Maggie are have some quietly exclusive conversation and the rest of us are awkwardly quiet.

"Dunno," Bianca says. "Fending for himself. I told him I wanted to spend a little alone time with my siblings while Laurel's up, but then Mark ruined it by coming along."

"I suppose I ruin a lot of things by coming along," Mark says in a joking voice. But he's still standing, and he looks helplessly at Bianca as if she's going to provide him a way out of here.

"I suppose you do," Bianca says.

And then Laurel, still looking out the window, starts a little and involuntarily yelps, "Oh my God!" She glances nervously at me, like there's something she should tell me but doesn't want to, and then out the window again.

"What?" I ask. Marks walks over to look over Laurel's shoulder at whatever it is she's seen.

"It's just this guy out here," she says hesitantly. "I thought he looked like that guy you were with at the party, Eliot? But I don't think it's him. He's sucking some girl's face off. It's not him. It just looks like him."

But Mark has looked out of the window, and now he's looking at me, and I can tell from the look on his face that it is Eliot Camden

"No," I say, "It's probably him. We broke up. For obvious reasons."

"Or maybe not so obvious," Bianca mutters, not quite under her breath, and Mark's eyes dart to her. But she is examining her fingernails all innocently and doesn't return his gaze.

Then Laurel stifles the awkward and changes the subject by resolutely shutting the curtains and declaring, "Guys are assholes. All of them." She falls into the nearest chair and crosses her arms over her chest, ready for someone to challenge her.

"Nothing like a hasty generalization," Mark says with a smile, turning to face Laurel, which effectively turns his back on me.

"I think Mark's wondering what he ever did to you," Jim says to his sister.

"He hasn't done anything to me personally," Laurel admits, "But I'm sure he's done plenty to other girls." She looks up at Mark and asks, "What about that poor girl you wrote the book about?"

"What about her?" Mark says. And although he's looking at Laurel, and speaking to Laurel, it still feels like a challenge.

I say, "Well, she breaks up with you and instead of reacting like a normal person you go all Count of Monte Cristo and try to destroy her."

Now Mark does look at me. "I was the victim," he protests.

I stretch my legs out in front of me and cross my ankles. "So was the Count of Monte Cristo," I say ruefully. "I was hoping you would appreciate my clever literary reference."

Mark stares at me blank-faced for a minute, and then he smiles. Really more like grins. "Fine," he says. "I'm an asshole."

"That's okay. We can still be friends," I tell him, still light, still like we're just joking. Although I hope he realizes, I'm trying to apologize.

He looks at me with this inscrutable expression, but tips his head forward a little like it's an agreement. Then Laurel, who knows nothing about the situation and is therefore oblivious to all subtext, says, "See, we've all agreed? Mark's an asshole. And so is Eliot Whoever-He-Is. Total asshole. Don't worry about him, Cameron. You can so do better. And the girl he was making out with looked like a total skank."

"It doesn't matter," I tell Laurel. "It was just a mistake. And by far not the worst one I've made."

Then the conversation turns. Laurel starts telling us all about her fabulous new life in Florida. Without anyone really noticing aside from me, Mark drifts to a corner. He's produced a pen and a loose sheet of paper from somewhere and is feverishly scribbling notes on the page. I'm not sure what to think about it, and I try to concentrate on what Laurel is saying. Eventually, she realizes that Mark isn't paying any attention to her and asks him what he's doing.

"I've had in inspiration," Mark says. "I have to write them down when I have them or I forget. I support myself by inspiration, you know."

"Stop being anti-social," Bianca says.

"Leave me alone," Mark replies, and only sounds like he's half joking.

In a little while, though, he's done writing his inspiration and joins us again. The conversation turns to baby names, with all of us giving our suggestions to Maggie and Jim. All of us, that is, except for Mark, who is mostly looking agitated and folding and refolding the paper he was writing on.

Eventually Laurel's cell phone rings. It's Grant Beckett, and she leaves the room to talk to him. Then Bianca leaves to meet Todd and Mark says he has to go to. And he leaves. Doesn't say a word to me, just leaves.

Once the door is shut behind him, I lean back on Maggie's shoulder. "Well, that's over," she says.

But it's not over. Almost as soon as she says it, Mark magically reappears. I sit up.

"Hey Camry," he says. I notice that he has my copy of his book is in hands. "Keep forgetting to give this back to you," he says, and hands it to me.

I'm not sure what to say, so I just say, "Thanks."

"Right," Mark says, a little awkwardly. "Okay. See you all around." And he leaves again, this time for good.

Maggie and Jim begin chattering to each other again, while I stare at the cover of the book, wondering if it means anything that Mark finally gave it back to me, and if it means something what it could mean. I absently open the book. It opens to a page where a sheet of paper has been wedged. A sheet of paper that looks as though it's been folded and refolded over and over. I start to freak out a little, and even though Jim and Maggie aren't paying any attention to me, I angle myself away from them. I unfold the piece of paper.

It's definitely Mark's handwriting; I know that right away. My head is spinning a little. I smooth the paper with one hand and I read:

_Oh, Cameron, what can I say? I wish I could tell you how impossible it is for me to be in the same room with you anymore, a knife in my heart – however cliché that may be. Ever since I came back from Florida – I came back for you, Cameron. It's the only reason. I had to see you. Bianca will tell you. And there you were in my book store with Eliot Camden stealing you umbrellas – but I won't talk about him, because it doesn't matter. I don't know what matters anymore. I've got David on my ass night and day about how I'm supposed to have him a draft by now. But it's as impossible for me to write as it is for me to be in a room with you. I can't do anything anymore. I can't do anything but think about you, all the time, constantly. I can't shut it off. It's agony, and hopelessness, because there you sit, all composed, asking Laurel how she likes the tropical weather,, like it's no big thing at all. There you sit, saying, "We can still be friends." I can't be friends, Cameron. I'm not angry anymore, and I know you were right about the book – it was horrible, and vindictive, and self-righteous and I apologize. But I can't be friends. Tell me it's not too late for us. I know it's not. And of course you know by now what I'm meaning to say, but I've gone to far not to say it out right. And so: _

_I still love you, and always will._

_-M_

_PS. Either way, I promise not to write a sequel._

_-_

"Camry?" Jim says. "You okay there, Camry? You're looking a little pasty."

I quickly fold the note—which I've already read twice through—and tuck in back inside the book. "Yes," I say to Jim. But I can't breathe. I need to leave. I need to leave now. I say, "I forgot, I told Elise I'd be over after work. I have to go."

I stand up, and Maggie says, "Jim will drive you."

I try to protest. I don't want to waste Jim's time, I say. Because I don't actually want to go see Elise; it's about the last thing I want to do right now. That was just an excuse. I just want to find Mark. I need to find Mark. But I can't come up with any good reason why Jim shouldn't take me to Elise's, and there's no stopping them.

So in the end, I follow Jim down to the parking garage, impatient and fidgety and wondering how I'm going to stand sitting across the living room for Elise while she talks at me about Eliot and second chances when the only second chance I've ever wanted is somewhere out there waiting for me.

But then it happens. When Jim and I have walked halfway to his truck, we both spot Mark. He hasn't left yet. He's resting on the hood of his car, talking animatedly into his cell phone. Then he sees us. He looks at me, up and down, trying to read me. He says to the phone, "Listen, I have to go." He slowly rises from the car.

Jim says, "I thought you were in some big hurry."

"I got a phone call," Mark says, eyes still on me, looking very uncertain. I'm holding the book, and I unconsciously shift if from one hand to the other. Mark's eyes travel to the book for a moment, and then back to my face. Looking more uncertain now.

"Well, if you not in a big hurry, you could take Cameron to Elise's on your way," says Jim, who couldn't possibly know that this is a horrible thing to say.

"Yeah, of course," Mark says, looking like he might throw up, or die.

"Right, then," Jim says cheerfully. Then to me: "See, you're not even wasting my time."

Somehow I manage a smile. Then Jim walks away whistling, and Mark and stand I there staring at each other, only a few feet apart. We stare at each other for a while after Jim's gone. I can't think of what to say. How is it that I can't think of what to say? I'm getting ready to blurt out something—anything—when Mark breaks the silence.

He says, "Fuck, you read it."

Which throws me a little. "I thought that was the point."

He stares at me, his jaw working a little.

"Are you taking it back?" I ask.

Mark breathes in and exhales, long and slow. "No. It's true. No take backs."

"Okay," I say. "Good."

Mark narrows his eyes at me, and then he starts to grin, because I start to grin, and then he starts to laugh. "For heaven's sake, Camry, you didn't have to stand there for ten minutes looking petrified and not saying anything. What are you trying to do to me?"

"Sorry," I say. Somehow the distance between us has closed, although I couldn't say who walked toward whom. One of Marks hands is gliding behind my back, pulling me against him. I'm still holding the book, and I push it against his chest. "You deserve it a little. It is a really mean book."

He takes the book from me. "Put that away," he says, and tosses it behind him onto the hood of his car. My hands are empty. One of them finds his hand. He says, "Now Cameron, do you have something to say to me?"

"Oh," I shrug, "just, you know, I love you."

And then he kisses me, his lips against mine, gently parting them, his arms around me pulling me in. And something inside of me explodes, and I press myself against him and feel his lips and his arms and his body and the world begins and end and begins and ends and begins. And then I remember I have something to tell him.

"Mark," I gasp, breaking out of the kiss just enough to say this. "I didn't sleep with Eliot."

It might not register immediately what exactly I'm saying. Mark just murmurs, "It doesn't matter," against my face.

I lean back a little farther, to make sure he's paying attention to what I'm saying. "So it doesn't matter at all whether or not I had sex with Eliot."

Mark thinks for a minute. "Well, now that you mention it, I do immensely prefer that you haven't slept with Eliot. But even if you had, I don't think I would've let that be the thing that came between us. Or anything. Ever again."

I smile. "That's a really good answer."

"It's the truth," he says, and he kisses me again. And then he asks, "So am I really taking you to Elise's?"

"Oh, God no. Take me anywhere but there."

"Now that," he says, "is a really good answer."

-

**A/N: Greetings to reviewers and lurkers alike. **

**There will be one more chapter. But review now!!!!!!! Make me happy!!!!!!!!!!**

**I've been thinking about whether or not I'll do another one of these modernization thingys once this one is done. Haven't decided yet. I might continue with my Emma adaptation "Stage Effect" which has been on hiatus for a v. long time, or I have noticed a dearth of Northanger Abbey fiction (which I don't understand, because it might be my favorite), or I might just call it quits.**

**Anyway, one more chapter for this one. Thanks for all the reviews and support thus far.**


	26. Epilogue

**The End, Part I  
**_**Mark (11 hours later)**_

I wake up to an unfamiliar cell phone alarm clock going off at some ungodly hour. In bed beside me someone moves, and the alarm stops ringing. In the dark, I reach for her and pull Cameron back towards me.

She doesn't resist, but she says, "I have to go home. I can't wear the same clothes to work two days in a row." Her voice is sleepy in the best possible way—not tired, but dreamy and content.

"You can wear one of my shirts," I say. "Roll up the sleeves."

She doesn't answer, but she seems to settle back in. I hold on to her, afraid that if I let her go I will wake up again to find that it has all been a dream, that none of it has happened at all.

Of course, I didn't take to Elise's house the day before. I took her to dinner; we talked for hours. Then I took her home, where we slowly undressed each other, and in my bed she pressed her slender body against mine and told me again that she loved me. And in the morning, I awoke to her alarm clock, and there I lay, and here I lie, with the only woman in the world beside me.

She sighs. She says, "I really should go."

She runs a finger along my temple, down towards my chin. So I kiss her and she kisses me back at length. But then, since she is Cameron, and so responsible, and she must go home to change her clothes, she pulls away and taps my lips three times with her finger. She crawls out of bed and starts getting dressed.

I stretch and yawn and allow myself to close my eyes and lie there for just a few minutes. It's very early. Then I sit up. "I'll drive you back," I tell her.

Cameron, who is buttoning her shirt, pauses to smile at me. And all I want for the rest of my life is for her to smile at me. Then a powerful melancholy hits me. Because the beginning is just a sad as the end if it's the beginning of something that's going to end eventually. And I have to be sure. I just have to be sure. I say, "Cameron."

"Hmmm," she says, but continues dresses.

"You'd better marry me this time," I say. She stops dead and looks at me. I say, "I'm not saying we have to march up the JP tomorrow or anything. I'm just saying, if you're not planning on it eventually you'd better warn me now."

Cameron smiles again. She says, "I'm planning on it."

- - - - - -

**The End, Part II  
**_**Cameron (3 months later)**_

From the bathroom, where I'm curling my hair, I'm listening closely for any signs of life inside the bedroom. I hear papers shuffling, and finally I hear Mark's voice. "Oh God," he groans. "What have you done?"

"You asked me," I reply. Taking a last look at my reflection, I turn off the curling iron and enter the bedroom.

Mark is sitting cross-legged on the bed looking intently through a thick stack of papers in front of him. It's his manuscript, the one that he asked me to edit, and which I just gave back to him. He says, almost accusingly, "You destroyed it."

"I did not," I reply. "I just offered my extremely helpful and someone lengthy commentary. And I did it for free, too. You should be grateful. Most people have to pay for that kind of stuff."

"I am grateful. I'm just also in shock," he says, still shuffling through the papers, still having not once looked up at me.

"Do I look pretty?" I ask.

He looks at me now, at first with the manuscript still in his hands. Then he puts it down, sets it completely aside, and gets this look on his face like he does sometimes. He stands up and grabs my hand and drags me over to the bed.

"Sit down," he says, sitting me down. And then: "Stay there." With that, he disappears out of the bedroom. I sit on the bed and wait for him to return, bemused and curious.

When he comes back, he kneels in front of me and quite earnestly takes my hands. "Camry," he says, "you have to marry me. Say you will."

It's not exactly surprising, but I'm surprised at him asking me now, when I'm late for my Maggie's baby shower, practically on my way out the door. Playfully, not suspiciously, I tell him, "I'm sure there are better editors out there, if that's what you're after. Probably prettier ones."

"There are no prettier girls," he says. He indicates the manuscript. "I said that somewhere in the fifth chapter, if you noticed."

Which does surprise me, on all accounts. "What? It's not even about me. It's a western. It's historical fiction."

"Of course it's about you. It'll always be about you. I've just learned subtlety, is all."

Now I'm the one leafing through the manuscript, looking for chapter five, and Mark says, "You haven't answered me yet. Look."

I look. He has a ring, but not just any ring. The ring I sent back to him five years ago.

"Oh my God," I say. "Oh my God. You're kidding me."

He laughs and shakes his head. "Nope. I kept it all these years. Which is actually kind of embarrassing. And also kind of cheap of me to offer it to you now, when I could afford way better, if you think about it."

I lean down and kiss him, and he slips the ring onto my hand. "That's a yes, then," he says.

"It's a million yeses," I reply. "But I'm also late."

"Come on," Mark says, standing up and pulling me up after him. "Come on, I'll drive you."

- - - - -

**A/N: Apologies for the long delay for only a very short epilogue. I honestly could not figure out how to finish this thing off. Then the Battlestar Galactica finale ate my brain. Then I still could not think of how to finish this. But anyway, there it finally is.**

**Thanks all for your wonderful reviews without. So now all you have to do is review one more time and let me know what you think/thought about the last little bit here or the whole shebang or whatever. **

**You can also, if you like, tell me how you feel about modernized Catherine Moorland being a science fiction geek, because I'm totally considering going there, although I'm not certain yet how it would all work out.**

**Love to everyone. Keep a sharp eye for long-delayed updates to "Stage Effects" or perhaps something Northanger Abbey-themed.**

**~Non-damsel**


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